


it keeps my veins hot (the fire's found a home in me)

by loveontherocks



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, M/M, artist!zayn, excessive amounts of pining?, firefighter!Liam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 00:20:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 51,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4458122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveontherocks/pseuds/loveontherocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You think anyone said thanks?" Zayn asks, his voice wrecked and shredded, half whisper, half reminiscent of pubescent teenaged years.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Harry looks at him like he's lost his mind. "Thanks to who?"</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Zayn shrugs, finally bringing the cigarette up to his lips, igniting the flame of his lighter. "The firefighters. They're the ones who got us out, right? They're why you and I are here on this couch right now. Right?"</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Harry purses his lips. "Dunno. Wasn't a priority of mine, I guess."</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>It should be, Zayn thinks.</i>
</p>
<p>or; the one where zayn survives a fire and falls in love with the firefighter that saved him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it keeps my veins hot (the fire's found a home in me)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my very first fic for the fandom and I'm really nervous to post, but I hope all of you like it. I started writing in February and here we are, the end of July! Amazing.
> 
> I'd like to thank everyone who cheered me on writing this, and a very, very special thanks to @eroticziam for the beta work. Please enjoy!
> 
> The title is from Lorde's "Yellow Flicker Beat".

* * *

When Zayn wakes, he can hear the buzz of chattering around him—electrifying words and phrases being thrown around the hospital corridors, accompanied by soft smiles and warm expressions from the doctors and nurses when they visit his room to tell him he’s going to be okay.

It takes him a moment to process what’s going on; he doesn’t quite remember what happened after he gave up, but he does remember someone getting him out of the burning building. Someone had carried him out. He remembers a muffled, alluring voice; when all he could do was cough and rub at his eyes, this voice kept him grounded somehow. He recalls gasping for air and dwelling on how this was probably the shittiest way of going out; he remembers strength, yelling, and so much commotion—just thinking about it makes the headache bloom from the back of his head up to his temples. A throbbing reminder of what almost happened. His throat is sore and every intake of breath scratches roughly against his esophagus.

He supposes after inhaling so much damn smoke he would loath the mere thought of smelling it again, and yet, he can already feel the craving for a goddamn cigarette. The fucking irony.

* * *

The dispatching process is easy enough, after days and days of observation, of course. His mother, Tricia, had been there the entire time, caring for him and looking after him, even after he constantly reminds her that’s what they paid the nurses for. He appreciates it, though, having his family members dot on him after the nurses and doctors were finished coddling and running tests on him. The doctors never stop reminding him how lucky he is; minor burns, minimal scarring, not much damage at all if he's honest. He gets to go home, to sleep off the worst of it. He's alive, but the pain in his chest remains as a solid reminder. (Still breathing, heart beating.)

“You’ll be alright if I go?” Tricia asks, dark, kind eyes swirling with worry. He nods.

“Yeah, Mum, I’ll be fine. I’ve got Harry, and you know how he is.” Zayn’s voice is barely a whisper and she doesn’t quite look like she believes him, which is fine. He gets it; she’s worried about her kid. But he’s alright. He’s _alright_.

He’s just been rescued from a fire; he can only imagine the worry that weighs her down. He gives her a gentle smile and embraces her. “I’ll be fine, mum. Promise.” Her scent tickles his nose, smells like home and warm winters, cozy nights with his sisters, his mother huddled up with his father on the couch. Part of him wants her to stay, though he’s too stubborn to admit so out loud.

Tricia pulls her body away from his, runs her slender fingers through the fringe hanging flat over his forehead. “You’ll call, yeah? I don’t hear from you enough as it is,” she chastises, wearing a worried smile.

“Yes, yes, just go. I’ll be okay. I’ll bring Harry around for dinner one of these days, too.”

She gives him a tentative smile. “Good. I don’t see enough of you boys.”

Zayn sighs and nods. “Love you, Mum,” he mumbles.

She leaves him, though, as much as it pains her to do so. “Love you, too, sunshine.”

The cab is waiting outside when he makes it to the entrance of the hospital. He takes a moment to rip off the bracelets around his left wrist and toss them in the bin.

* * *

Harry is all arms and legs at their flat, welcoming him home. His curly hair is pulled back into a knot and he’s wearing a sweatshirt with their university logo on it. It hangs off his frame, and the jeans he wears are as tight as always. It’s only been a few days; nothing’s changed, he knows, but it feels like a lifetime ago. Harry greets Zayn with a giant smile, the kind that carves dimples into his cheeks, and takes him into his arms. Zayn’s forgotten how much he’s missed this.

Harry’s strong for Zayn where Zayn is weak, not even tearing up the slightest bit when he had to change the bandages on the back of Zayn's shoulder where he’s been burned. The burns run over the snake that sits on his shoulder; the blistered skin is going to be a gross reminder for a little while, but he figures it’s a small price to pay. Harry is tender, sweet, biting down on his lip and holding back words like "I'm so glad you're alive" and "I don't know what I'd do without you” as he works on the bandages.

(He's gentle smiles and soft touches, an image of pure normalcy; so unabashedly Harry it almost brings tears to Zayn’s eyes. He couldn’t be more grateful.)

"Hungry, babe?" Harry asks from the kitchen, tending to the whistling kettle while Zayn rolls a cigarette in his fingers, weighing the cons (because what pro is there to his nicotine addiction?) of lighting it up.

"Nah," he rasps and he's being serious. Can't keep much down anyway; his skin is still buzzing from the inside out, and his stomach is still flipping. There’s still this nervous, bustling energy inside of him, like his body can’t quite contain it. He doesn’t quite know what to make of it; he looks down at the cigarette his still rolling between his fingers, a small flicker of hope burning in his chest that the smoke will make the energy inside of him subside. Just a little.

Sometimes when he closes his eyes he can still see the licking flames, the way they conquered the space in the room, how they turned everything to ash within seconds. If he isn't careful enough, let’s his guard down for one short second, he can taste the purity of his fear, thick on his tongue, choking him.

"You sure?" Harry's voice calls, dragging him out of his reverie.

Zayn hums in response.

Before he knows it, his mind is racing without his permission, wondering about the other kids in the room at the time of the fire—were they still walking around? Were they also declining meals done up by their flat mates? Were they contemplating suffering the pain for just a couple of hits of nicotine? He'd been selfish enough not to ask; maybe it was the lack of memory at first, how his head swam with the faces of his family, Harry, the flames still skittering along his skin.

He's curious now; there's a strong sense of guilt that settles in the pit of his stomach, weighing him down, making his heart thump against his chest like it’s trying to find a way out. He closes his eyes. Counts. He counts until it slows down again. Harry's suddenly at his side, his hand on his forearm, counting along with him.

"Too much?" Harry asks softly, rubbing the palms of his hands over his trembling arms.

Zayn cracks his eyes open, catching Harry's green irises flooded with worry, brimmed with tears that don’t quite fall.

"Do you know about the others? Like survivors? Or did any of them ..."

Harry frowns, his forehead creasing. He speaks slowly, like he's trying not to break Zayn's heart, even though it's inevitable.

"They did everything they could,” Harry starts, not quite looking at Zayn, not quite catching the heavy gaze of Zayn’s eyes. Zayn lets his eyes shut, leans back against the couch. “Got all the girls first. Went back for you. Another guy, too. I watched it all on the news, proper scared, sitting here so worried about you. They couldn't get to two of them, I think. Some seniors. School held a memorial while you were unconscious. There are flowers and pictures everywhere." Harry clears his throat, retracts a hand to run his fingertips over his cheeks, erasing the fallen tears.

Zayn’s eyes start to prickle with tears of his own. It's the exhaustion, he thinks. The fact that he isn't one of them, the fact that it happened at all. A freak accident, really; a slight explosion from some mixed chemicals, the fire catching too fast for the rest of them to get out. He remembers screaming, panic, the way it settled bone deep, the unadulterated fear that shook him. His throat closes up and for a moment he can't breathe, the memories triggering his underlying fear. He’s panicked and scratching at his chest until Harry's hands are on his face, his voice luring him back with the stark sound of numbers. He’s counting. _One. Two. Three. Four_.

"You're okay. You're right here. You're here with me." Harry's voice is thick and Zayn notices when the tears begin to fall again, marring the softness of his pale features. Crying always makes Harry’s eyes look like colorful Mexican glass.

Harry doesn't say things like "I'm glad you aren't dead, I'm glad you aren't one of them", but the way he holds him tells him it’s exactly what Harry wants to say. Zayn can’t blame him. He supposes were their positions reversed, Zayn would still be panicking; worried with the idea of his best friend being so close to death—it would be too much.

"You think anyone said thanks?" Zayn asks, his voice wrecked and shredded, half whisper, half reminiscent of pubescent teenaged years.

Harry looks at him like he's lost his mind. "Thanks to _who_?"

Zayn shrugs, finally bringing the cigarette up to his lips, igniting the flame of his lighter. "The firefighters. They're the ones who got us out, right? They're why you and I are here on this couch right now. Right?"

Harry purses his lips. "Dunno. Wasn't a priority of mine, I guess."

_It should be_ , Zayn thinks.

* * *

It takes Zayn a while to gather up the information he needs, to find the right team. He struggles to get his thoughts out, stuttering his way through conversations at the hospital, asking where they’d come from, if all of the firefighters had survived. It takes even more time to gather up the little bit of courage he needs to actually walk into to the station. He doesn't have names, but he has dates and other specifics, tray of fucking cookies that Harry insisted he take with him; cookies they'd stayed up all night to bake, because "Firefighters love food, right, Zayn?"

(It took a couple tries, three batches of burned cookies before he threw down the towel, shoved down his pride, and asked Harry for his help.)

It’s a long walk, a lot of counting. A lot of debating because do people even do this? Do they ever come back to thank the people that saved their lives? Zayn thinks it's pretty selfish of them not to. To go on living without so much as looking at the people that granted them that privilege. His survivor’s guilt keeps him up at night. He can’t help but want to thank them, especially when his anxiety is eating away at him from the inside out.

The tray in his hands makes him feel stupid for a moment as he walks up the drive. There are a couple of trucks parked out front, gleaming fire engine red, and a couple of stocky men standing around. They don't see him, not right away, but he’s always had a way of doing that, sneaking up until the last moment. Being invisible. Which is why he is a bit surprised when a short blonde with bright ocean blue eyes notices him.

(Zayn wonders idly if the fire burned away his cool, collected demeanor, because he still feels like a fucking loser with this damn tray of cookies in his hands.)

"Hey, you need something?" There's an Irish lilt to the blonde’s voice; it’s friendly and inviting. Still, Zayn must take a moment too long to utter a word because the blonde's smile is begins to falter.

"Uh. Yeah, I—" there's a pause where he coughs, tries to find the smoothness of his voice lost in the raspiness of his chest "—I'm looking for a team, I guess. Wanted to, uh, say thanks. For, you know, being alive or whatever. And, uh, you know. Keeping us alive. I guess."

The smile is back full force, amazingly bright and blinding, and Zayn stumbles back a little. It’s like looking directly into the sun (he wonders how often that lines been used to describe him).

"That's nice of you. Not many people come back you know? We get a few from time to time, but ..." His eyes flicker down to the tray and his smile (impossible, it had seemed, but somehow it happens) brightens tenfold. "No one ever comes with fucking cookies, man."

A moment later he's being dragged (almost literally) into the firehouse. His companion guides him through halls and walkways until he's in what looks like a kitchen. The blonde (Zayn feels dumb for not asking for a name) starts shouting, commandeering attention from the rest of them men crawling through the kitchen and spilling out into the halls. There's so many of them; Zayn's eyes flit around the room to count, but he can't keep track of the faces.

"Got a kid here with something to say," the blonde says finally.

_That’s unnecessary_ , Zayn thinks. He's got dozens of eyes on him, while awkwardly holding a tray in his hands, palms sweating to the point he fears he might drop the damn cookie tray. He chews on his lips before uttering a small, "Just wanted to thank you guys for saving those art school kids so here's some cookies or whatever." His words are jumbled, and he still can’t speak too loud without straining his throat, but he thinks that does nicely.

There's a groan from the blonde and Zayn's eyes snap over to him. "Damn, that was all Payno and his heroic ass, and he’s not even here right now."

Zayn doesn't know what's going on, or what that even means, but he ignores the comment and opts to count; because the sudden noise in the room makes his headache blossom and ache, drilling away at his temples. Hands grab for the tray and clap him on his back, thanking him like he has done something important for _them_ ; he flinches, shying away from where they thump hands over his bandages. They’re rough hands, but all endearing smiles, thankful in a way that has Zayn confused.

"Niall, you could at least wait until Liam shows up before devouring his fucking cookies, man," comes a voice to his right, startling Zayn.

The blonde looks like he's been caught, but slides easily into nonchalance. The name fits him. (Niall shoves a cookie into his mouth and Zayn can hear swears fall from his mouth like an absolution.)

"What's your name, kid?"

The crowd is dispersing, and the same voice that called Niall out belongs to the man standing off to his right, hovering over the tray. He's of a smaller frame, short, and looks in no way fit to be a firefighter like some of the mountains of mass the other men were. The man’s eyes glitter through his brown fringe before he speaks.

"Zayn Malik," he answers easily. His fingers reach into the pockets of his leather jacket, fists clenching. He can hold it together for a little while longer. He _can._

"Zayn Malik. Cool." The guy chews his way through a cookie and grins at Zayn. "This one here's Niall Horan, mostly in charge of cooking. I'm Louis Tomlinson, mostly in charge of everything else. Thanks for—the thought, I guess. Not many remember to say thank you after someone saves their life. Not many people come back. I mean, _yeah_ , the community as a whole throws parades and shit, but you individual people? We don’t get as much as a thank you card for the trouble.”

Louis’ voice is brash, and a little mean, but Zayn gets it. In fact, he understands it. He’s never thrown the firemen a second thought, but they’re all he can think about now, since he has the ability to actually _think_. They gave him that chance. He has to show how grateful he is.

"Kind of fucked up," Zayn answers, because it is. Just standing here, in a fireman's kitchen, makes him itch, because he owes everything to these men. The people who sacrificed themselves for him. "Guilt’s been eating at me if I'm honest."

Louis looks at him, like he's judging, and Zayn feels attacked under the cold chill of his gaze.

"These cookies are a godsend mate; where the hell'd you learn to bake like this?" Niall starts, crushing his way through a third or fourth maybe. Zayn darts his eyes from Louis to Niall and it’s caught in his throat that it was all _Harry_ , that Zayn just stood and watched. He doesn't get a chance to clarify, though.  Another fireman is rounding the island where the three of them are stood, an easy smile on his handsome face.

"Josh said there was a kid with cookies. I was thinking girl scouts, not…" the new fireman lets his sentence fall away as brown eyes flit over to him, catching his own eyes. There's a long moment where Zayn feels naked under the scrutiny, not sexualized, no, but still bare under the heaviness of the man’s gaze. For a group of firemen, they aren't thanked very much, it seems.

"I—me and some kids in the art room, like I know some—I just wanted to s—" he breaks off, clears his throat, but the words stop coming because the fear is trickling down his spine. He wonders if it's like this for everyone or if it’s just him, if he's just pathetically fucked up. "I just wanted to say, uh, thanks. And- _fuck_ , like, cookies are totally not enough, of course, I know that, but like, I didn't—I wasn't—I..."

A hand wraps around his forearm and Zayn’s words die in his throat.  He feels like he can't breathe. Why the fuck did he tell Harry he could do this alone?

His vision blurs a little around the edges as he yanks his hands from the pockets of his jacket to close in on himself. He's warm, so warm, his eyes are burning and he can't _breathe_.

There's a moment, a _very_ long moment, before he starts counting. It takes him all the way to sixty two to regulate his breathing again, to control his heart, to let the words filter through. Warm, steady brown eyes catch his own, and when his eyes dart from side to side, he catches Niall's blue eyes, flecked with worry, then Louis' eyes, mirroring that same concern. Once his eyes settle back on the center Zayn finds those solid, earnest brown eyes staring at him intently. He focuses on them, just watches them watch him back.

"Hey. Hey, you're okay," the man says. "You're okay."

Zayn doesn't believe it for a second, but he's alive, he's got all his limbs, he's still breathing, heart beating. It’s enough for now.

"Get some water, Niall," Louis commands. "Should I grab a blanket or something, Liam? He's fucking shaking."

The man—Liam—nods and suddenly everyone’s rushing out of the room until Zayn's left alone with him. He winces when he starts to feel it, the trembling in his limbs. He can feel it rattle his teeth. "Fuck, sorry. I—"

"Hey, it’s okay. It’s alright. Nauseous at all?" Liam asks him, fingers wrapping around his wrist. It takes Zayn a moment to work out that Liam’s checking his pulse. “Light headed?”

Zayn shakes his head. "No. No, I'm fine. I should probably, like, leave or something before I keep embarrassing myself."

Liam frowns, and when he does, it’s with his whole body, sagging down. "Something bad happened. Reacting to that isn't something you should be embarrassed about," he murmurs gently, eyes strong, but calm. He's a contradiction, this man, with his soft brown eyes and strong shoulders, calloused fingertips curled loose over Zayn's wrist.

"I—it’s mostly guilt,” Zayn admits again, sighing. He lets his eyes fall closed. “And I don't know why. Harry—my flat mate, like—he told me there were some kids you guys couldn't get to. And you got to me, like. You got me out and—I don't know how to feel about that."

Zayn doesn't mean to unload, he doesn't, but the words fall from his lips too easily. It makes his heart pound, makes him want Harry to hold him like he’s been doing for the past week. He longs for his bed, a fucking cigarette, some coffee, and yeah, he could use a goddamn blanket. (He wants to sleep again, because sleep is easy. Can’t feel much guilt when he’s dead tired, eyes closed, just sleeping.)

Liam opens his mouth to say something, but he's interrupted when Zayn’s suddenly got a glass of water shoved in his face and is being enclosed by a thick blanket. He isn't cold, but the fact that he has the ability to hide makes him feel better; he doesn’t like the way his shaking arms are on display. He decides not to take the water, Louis setting the glass on the counter of the island where the cookies are.

Maybe it’s exhaustion or survivor’s guilt or whatever, but he's tired and he just wants to go home.

"Someone I can call to come get you? Your flat mate maybe?" Liam asks, fingers still wrapped around Zayn’s wrist.

He's being ushered to a chair and he sits down, trying not to let himself feel pathetic. (It doesn't work.)

"Yeah. We can call Harry,” Zayn concedes.

* * *

When Harry bursts through the door, he's a loud voice demanding where Zayn is, ushered in by Louis. Zayn rarely sees Harry bursting with this kind of energy when he’s upset. There’s a dark light behind his eyes, like he’s afraid. Worried that something terrible has happened and Zayn’s in danger again. That his best friend isn’t okay. Zayn’s not okay, not really, not when he's got dead classmates sitting in the back of his mind. He doesn't know where the guilt comes from, why it’s thick in his heart, why it won't let him go, why _he_ won’t let _it_ go. He’s not okay, even though he’s gonna go on and say he is.

Harry holds him for a while, murmuring reassurances, but Zayn can't hear him over the loud numbers in his mind. He only makes it to twenty two this time around. Liam, Niall, and Louis stand in front of them, patient, while Harry pets his fingers through Zayn’s hair.

"It’s common," Niall offers, like it’ll make Zayn feel better to be among the ranks of other fire survivors struggling with guilt. "Some people don't make it. Others tend to carry that with them. ‘S not a bad thing, mate."

Liam and his brown eyes don't leave Zayn, and Zayn can feel the gaze on his skin, scorching like the sun. He's not sure if he likes it or not.

(In the midst of his panic, he decides he does. It’s different from Harry, from his parents, from his sisters. Not better, not worse, and it’s still worry, but it’s different.)

"Sure we can't give you a lift?" Liam wonders, eyes alight with trepidation. There's nothing to worry about, not really. He’s fine, he just needs some sleep. "Lou won't mind."

There's a look on Louis' face, like he really won't mind, but there's still something cold about his gaze that Zayn doesn't quite understand. His gaze softens when he settles his eyes on Harry.

"Really?" Harry asks, like it’s necessary, even though Louis has keys in his hands, like he's ready to go. Niall sits next to Zayn on the bench, a comforting warmth Zayn can feel even through the blanket.

"Honestly, we don't mind. It’s kind of what we're here for." Niall's lilting voice is soft and it makes Zayn sigh. He didn't want it to be like this. He’s waited until he was ready to confront this, an almost tragedy. Zayn wishes he was stronger than this. He is stronger than this. He knows that. But somehow, it’s weighing him down, making it tough to breathe.

"Alright. Alright, let's go then." Harry says, and he’s helping Zayn up like he's immobilized, instead of just shaking off the remnants of his slight panic attack.

Zayn catches Liam's gaze as he walks away, doused in thick worry and concern. As they leave the station, Zayn finds himself thinking he would have rather seen Liam smile.

* * *

Louis chatters throughout the ride. It isn't long, ten minutes, fifteen at most, and the incessant talking is met with responses from Harry.

They talk about them, about who they are and how long they've been friends and if Zayn is honestly going to be okay. It makes Zayn ponder a bit about Louis’ chilly eyes, the way they'd been thrown so hard his way without reason. It makes Zayn think of Niall and the bubbly personality he'd only seen for a moment before the light had dimmed in his ocean eyes. It makes him think of Liam, Liam worrying about him even though they had barely met each other before Zayn was breaking down.

It makes Zayn wonder about this lot of firemen; of the men who saved him, of the men who'd do it again, and continuously do it every day. It didn't sit very well in his stomach knowing that there could be a time when one of them just doesn't come out, doesn't come back, doesn't come _home_. He's never thought of them, of their families, the homes they built, their friendships and social lives, their pets and apartments and people who would miss them. Zayn has never thought about it, and now that he is forced to think about it; it kills him, makes the guilt swirl like too much alcohol sitting in his empty stomach, waiting to crawl back up his throat and—

"Zayn, you look green," Harry cuts through, his voice slow like curling smoke. Soft, like he hadn't meant to bother Zayn.

Zayn shakes his head, pulls the blanket tighter around him. "I’m fine. Tired." His words are curt and short and he doesn’t like the way Harry sort of recoils from him, but he’s just tired, so tired. Tired of the guilt, of the worry, of the constant anxiety burning up in his veins. Harry wraps an arm around his shoulder.

Zayn catches a glimpse of Louis in the rearview mirror, kind eyes this time. Louis doesn't look like he believes Zayn and Zayn doesn't much care for it.

"Could sleep for days if I let him, this one," Harry teases. There’s a sweetness to his voice that settles warm on his skin. It’s comforting, real, _normal_.

"You probably should, by the looks of it. You don't look _'fine'_ at all, mate."

Zayn sighs again. Maybe it’s because he’s struggling to deal with it. Maybe it’s all too much for him. The burns on his shoulder, the pain in his chest, the way he can't light a cigarette without flinching at the once gorgeous glow of the flame from his lighter. Maybe, just maybe, it’s kind of fucking hard to deal with almost dying.

Harry lingers in the car, far after Zayn has said _goodbye_ and _thank_ _you_ and _see_ _you_ _around_. He treks up the stairs to their apartment, fishes out his keys from the pocket of his jeans to let himself in.

He makes it past the small living room and into the hallway, to his bed before letting himself collapse. He kicks off his shoes. Sleep doesn't come fast, but when it does, he lets it swallow him whole.

Maybe his last thought is about the blanket, the one nobody protested he take with him, and the way it smells like apples and spice and trees and spring.

Like _home_ , a little.

* * *

_The fire licks up the walls; possessive, aggressive in the way it spreads across the floor. The smoke billows, thick and confident, making his eyes sting, making it hard to keep his eyes open. He can hear his name being called (shouted, someone’s coming for him), but the smoke makes it hard to see, makes it too hard to do anything other than collapse. It’s difficult to keep fighting when every instinct is pushing him to give up, to just ... sit down and rest. It’ll be over soon, quick maybe._

_He can still hear his name echo off the walls, even through the crackling of the persistent flames engulfing the room. And then there are arms, hands, a voice loud by his ear._

_“Stay with me, kid. You’re okay. Just stay with me.”_

_He’s trying, but it’s just ..._ so _hard._

_But they won’t get out, not alive, maybe, he knows. The flames thicken, there’s an ominous heat hovering over the back of his neck. The arms around him tighten._

_“Focus on me, okay?”_

_Focus. Focus. He can’t, it’s too hard. He can’t do anything but let his eyes slide shut and—_

There’s a scream dying in his throat when his eyes snap open.

He’s sweating, shaking, still wrapped in the thick blanket he’d taken from the fire station. His breaths come labored, like he’s doing everything he can to grasps long strips of air, and it _hurts_ ; rasping in his lungs, wheezing, coughing when it’s too rough. He knows he should go looking for Harry, had promised Harry he would when he gets like this, but he can’t because who the hell is this beat up about living? About being alive?

_There’s got to be more to it_ , he thinks. There’s got to be more than just this, more than feeling so low he can’t feel much these days. (Just the heat, so much _heat_.)

Sitting up in his bed, he shrugs off the blanket and strips down. The clock beside his bed tells him it’s near three in the morning; he can’t remember exactly at what time they’d come back, though he does remember the height of the sun in the sky beating down on them, the gorgeous daylight that seemed blinding. He groans, the ache in his chest blooming. He itches for a cigarette; bad practice he knows, but it’s the comfort of it, an extension of him. He won’t be able to go back to sleep. Not now, not when he’s been sleeping for so long.

He hikes the window up, opens it just a crack and lets the cool January wind blow over his heated face. He lights a cigarette, lets the cherry glow red, and drags in the smoke he finds himself so scared of in his dreams.

There should be people he can talk to; someone with a PHD, or some sort of diploma hanging on the wall of a nondescript office in a discreet location. There has to be someone he can tell these things to, about his night terrors and waking up sweating his balls off with the fear still riding his heart. He could tell them of his counting; the panic attacks. Maybe this is supposed to be his normal now, a new normal he has to get used to; walking into places and looking for fire extinguishers the first chance he gets, planning escape routes in the event that a _what if_ becomes a reality.

(It’s so hard to shrug off; why is it so hard to let this roll off his back?)

The smoke curls from the edge of his cigarette; he can hear the way the flame consumes the paper, how the heat turns the paper into ash. He watches as it burns, slow and nonthreatening. Zayn would have thought it fascinating. Never would have thought himself as fragile as a sheet of paper.

(Has always been afraid of drowning, never thought he’d be afraid of burning, too.)

The smoke is thick in his mouth, leaves its aftertaste as it invades his lungs. He coughs, throat tight, his own body rejecting his addiction. He forces himself to deal with it. (Can’t quit, not when he needs it so badly.)

Eventually, when the cigarette has burned down to the cotton filter, he stubs it out in the ashtray on the ledge, and leaves the window open. The moon hangs fat in the sky; stars are a little harder to see in the light of the city, but it’s nice, he thinks. A nice view for such a shit neighborhood.

He gets dressed, pulling on a black hoodie over dark jeans, clunky boots left mostly untied. He pockets his cigarettes after stashing one behind his ear, and grabs his keys from the nightstand. Folding the blanket, and tucking it under his arm, he throws one last look the ashtray and heads out.

In the kitchen, he scribbles a note for Harry, careful to keep his phone on him, too. He’s sure he’ll be back, sure it won’t be long. It’s so late in the night that Harry won’t notice, he thinks. Not until the morning.

He locks the door behind him, pulls the cigarette back from behind his ear, and lights it up.

* * *

The station is quiet and brightly lit when he gets there; welcoming. Zayn hesitates before walking up, wondering why he’s doing this again. He’s already tried his hand at thanks (didn’t work much), but here he is, on the stoop, trembling fist raised to knock at the door.

He could just go home, back to Harry, crawl into his arms and let those long limbs coax him back to sleep. He knows he could, Harry would let him, would invite him in. Yet, he can’t sleep, doesn’t want to, because something is drawing him here. He has no idea what it is but he trusts it (won’t admit to the safety of it).

He knocks. Waits. Fingers fidgeting with the blanket underneath his arm. His shoulder hurts and there’s a headache teasing his skull. His eyelids feel heavy but he knows sleep won’t come easily.

The door pulls open, Niall standing there in unassuming sweatpants and a navy t-shirt with the stations emblem just over his heart. He looks shocked, clearly not expecting to see Zayn on the other side. Granted, it’s something like a quarter to four in the morning, Niall has every right to wear the surprise on his face.

“Hey,” Niall says easily, questions going off like alarm in his ocean eyes, blonde hair askew. Zayn offers a wobbly smile. (A grimace, probably, but it’s an attempt.) “Twice in one day? Nice,” he goes on, and Zayn shrugs.

“I—Couldn’t sleep. I don’t even know if this is, like. Allowed. Probably not,” Zayn says, looking down at the blanket tucked under his arm, pulling at a stray thread. “Sorry. Just, yeah. Wanted to give this back.”

Niall looks at him curiously, bits of incredulity biting at the smile on his lips. “Come in, yeah? It’s late. Did you walk all the way over here? Kind of dangerous in a busy city like this.”

(Zayn likes to think people don’t mess with him, but it’s quite the opposite. He knows the danger out there, has witness it first hand when slurs are thrown at him just as hard as fists are, and he’s sporting a black eye on his way back home. He _knows_.)

“Thanks,” Zayn says, polite (like his mummy taught him). He purses his lips. It’s quiet, but he can see bodies milling about. He doesn’t know what kind of schedule the station runs, feels like it’s kind of weird that these people sleep in the same place they work. He doesn’t say anything about it, though.

“Nice of you to bring the blanket back. Liam’s been groaning about the shitty one he’s using.”

(Zayn tries not to think about it, how the blanket is from Liam’s bed. Or of how much he liked the way it smelled when he had it wrapped around him as he slept. Doesn’t think about it even for a second.)

“Oh. Yeah. Shit, sorry. I didn’t—“

Niall waves him off. “No big deal. Liam’s door was open so I just grabbed it. Easier than running up all those the stairs for one of the shitty blankets stocked in the closet that Louis was looking for.”

Zayn smiles at him, follows Niall into the kitchen. Louis’ sitting at the counter, Liam at his side, glasses of milk in front of him and the tray of cookies he’d left earlier almost cleared away.

“Zayn’s here, guys,” Niall announces on his way in. Zayn hovers by the door and Louis’ eyes find him easily, blinking up at him.

“It’s fucking three in the morning. A little inappropriate for late night visits just because you missed me,” he grins. His eyes are warm, nothing at all like this morning. Zayn relaxes a little.

“You okay?”

Liam’s voice is smooth, _honest_ ; it conveys an indulgent concern Zayn is growing accustomed to. He’s bone tired, even after sleeping for half a day, but he’s alright.

He takes a moment to study Liam in a way he hadn’t considered doing before. Liam’s all golden skin, neat stubble, and round cheeks that add a certain softness to his face. He’s that birthmark Zayn can’t stop looking at, just a splotch of dark color settled invitingly over his throat. He has thick eyebrows, pink lips, and a round nose, fitting for Liam. His light brown hair is messy now, like he’s been sleeping and didn’t bother to fix it. He’s brown eyes, the color of tree bark in the springtime, that study Zayn silently as he continues his subtle perusal of Liam’s body. He’s strong shoulders and thick ropes of muscles adorning his arms. He’s handsome, in the way men on TV are, the way he sees them in magazines; rugged and rough around the edges, but still _so_ nice on the eyes.

And he could say the same for Niall, with his bright blue eyes and shocking blonde hair with its brown roots, his fair, fair complexion like he doesn’t get much sun at all. He could say the same for Louis with his striking grin and chilling blue eyes, his thin wiry frame and abundance of tattoos racing up his forearms.

But he doesn’t pay them much mind. Not really, not when Liam’s eyes are on him, patiently waiting for an answer, and all Zayn has been doing is staring.

“Yeah,” Zayn offers, and it’s not really a lie. He lets his legs carry him to the island where Liam is sat, Niall at his side, throwing back a glass of milk. Zayn leans against the counter.

“You get some rest?” Liam continues, eyeing him warily.

Zayn stiffens. Nods. “I had a nightmare. Happens a lot. Like of what happened. Can’t get out, you know?”

Liam’s shoulders wilt, but he nods. “Know all about it.” He finishes off his own glass, and looks up at Zayn. “Want something? To drink or eat or ...”

Zayn shakes his head in response. “I ... actually—like.” He stops himself, gathers his words, tries not to let his trembling get the best of him, tries not to let it defeat him. “I want to talk about what happened? I just want to know ... I don’t know why I’m so obsessed with it, right? Like finding out who it was? Niall said it was _you_. And I just—want to thank you properly, I guess, because I guess not a lot of people do. _And_ you went in that goddamn burning building and didn’t only get me out, but several of my classmates. That’s huge, right, mate? That’s fucking rad.” Zayn sucks in a shaky breath, continuing. “And I just need you to know that I keep thinking about it, and I probably won’t stop thinking about it because I’m alive because of it, right?”

“Like, no one expects things like that to happen. No one expects to find them in the middle of a fucking burning room about to die, and like, you got me out. My mum thanks you. My dad, my sisters. Harry thanks you every hour on the hour because he says he doesn’t know what he’d do without me. Not that I’m anything special, because I’m not, like. But to him, for some reason, I am. I’m special to my mum and to my dad and my sisters, and like I can’t thank you enough for saving them that kind of grief. Like, I can’t even complain about the pain I feel, you know? The way my chest burns or these fucking nightmares keeping me up, or like the burns on my shoulder, right? Because I’m alive. And it’s all because of you, you know? So, thank you. For that.”

It’s quiet enough that he’s sure he could hear a pin drop, its noise echoing against the white walls of the station. He’s got three pairs of eyes on him and he could fucking break from the fervor of his trembling. He forces himself to stay upright; afraid the slightest movement will trigger another attack, and let fear overpower his body. _Fuck_ , he just wants to let them know.

“Well, damn, man,” Niall says, and he’s got a grin that could power up an entire tri-state area. Liam’s eyes are glassy, and Louis looks shocked off to the right where he hovers over Liam. Zayn just stands there, holding up his weight on the counter of the kitchen island.

“Zayn ...” Liam’s voice comes smoothly. His voice sounds sweet and tender, the same way Harry talks when he’s a little apprehensive about something. “That’s—it’s our _job_. It’s what we do. Honestly. But thank _you_ for saying it.” He pauses, rubbing at the back of his neck with his hand, not quite meeting Zayn’s eyes. Zayn hates it; he wants to keep Liam’s gaze on him. “I think some of us forget that people appreciate it. We don’t do it for the parades or medals and stuff. We do it because we just ... it’s nice to give someone a hand from time to time.”

For the first time in what feels like too long, Zayn smiles. He smiles at Liam, at Louis, at Niall who’s still grinning at Zayn like he’s the one keeping the world turning on its axis.

There's a strong sense of calm that floods him, fills him to the brim and spills over. It isn't over, he knows that. This doesn't solve his anxiety, doesn't rid him of the guilt, but it does something good for him, to him. Part of him knows he should leave, trek back to his apartment before Harry starts to worry about where he's been. But he's rooted to where he stands, like a tree standing for hundreds of years. He doesn't want to go because he likes it here, likes it in the stark calm of the fire station.

"We should probably get to bed while we can," comes Louis' voice, small and sure, stable. Zayn chances a look at him and his eyes are dim with exhaustion, but they glitter with gratitude. Zayn gifts him a small grin.

"Yeah, I should—" he motions with his hand towards the walkway where he'd come through. "I should go. Sorry for bothering you lot so late. But thanks for listening."

Niall is the first to say goodbye, like he's oblivious of the time, bleary eyed like sleep is just now settling over him. He gives Zayn a tight hug before he goes. Louis is next, with strong blue eyes and a tight smile, bidding goodnight.

Liam, however, doesn't let him leave so easily.

"It's really late and it's probably best if you stay," he says, effortlessly, words smooth and cool. Zayn is taken aback, surprised. He fights the compassion the man shows him.

"Honest, I don't mind the walk," Zayn replies.

Liam shakes his head. "Probably, but I'll be up for the rest of the night worrying about you, so really, it’s better if you don't."

Zayn purses his lips. "Harry will worry."

Liam smiles, cheeks round and lips pink. "Then why'd you leave in the first place?"

"You know why. I couldn't sleep. I needed to see you. To say what I said."

Liam stares at him from across the island; expressive brown eyes, the color of coffee with a drip of cream, glowing in the dim light of the kitchen. His mouth is set into a gentle curve, lifting his lips into a soft smile that Zayn feels tug at his heart. "I appreciate that, you know? Like, so much. It's ... difficult, doing what we do. Some of us don't know if we're going to come back. And sometimes it scares me. The worst thing is not being able to get everyone to come back. Whether it’s one of the guys here, or a just a regular person. That's the worst. Coming back a little less whole than when we left."

Liam's words are like a punch to the gut. Zayn knows Liam didn’t mean to pull the trigger on him, but his words wind Zayn, leave him breathless, and it's happening again, the panicking, the scraping at his chest with the soft tips of his fingers like he's trying to open himself up and let his breath back in. Liam's out of his chair in a second and Zayn can hear his voice, but it won't register and he can't stop gasping.

He starts counting. Counting until his vision stops blurring, until the breath is steady in his lungs.

He opens his eyes.

Liam's arms are around him, hands splayed across the expanse of his back, and they're standing in the middle of the kitchen. Zayn is frozen, slumped against Liam's firm chest, his breath shuddering. He shivers incessantly, letting his eyes fall back shut.

They stand there for so long Zayn knows Liam is the only thing holding him up. He's embarrassed again, because it isn't supposed to be like this. It isn't supposed to be this way. (He’s fucked up and he knows it, and it’s stupid that all he does is show it.)

"You're okay, you're okay," Liam repeats, like a whisper that curls around him like a second skin. He believes it, he _does_.

"Liam, really,” Zayn whispers against the fabric of Liam’s shirt, “I should go home."

He pulls back, only slightly, just enough for Zayn to cock his head up to look at him. "You just had a panic attack and you want to walk home?"

Zayn doesn't make a move to leave like he should; and he knows he should. He shrugs as best as he can with Liam’s thick arms circled around him. He's taken more than enough of Liam's time. He doesn't need a babysitter, either.

He relents, though. Just this once, he promises himself.

"Alright, alright." Zayn chews on his bottom lip, still cradled against Liam's chest. "Where do I get to sleep?"

* * *

The sleeping quarters look like dormitories, Zayn decides, like the ones at the university he’d passed on to live with Harry in their flat. There are photos adorning the walls, a few cinema style posters, too, of super heroes and one he recognizes as Pacific Rim. It’s cool, Zayn decides, makes Liam more human where he seems too strong, too heroic. It’s funny, Zayn realizes, that Liam would idolize hand drawn heroes the way their society idolizes them, the firefighters who save the day. He doesn't comment on it, not yet. The words stick in his throat, bubble on his tongue. He feels, though, an inkling of pure need for a pencil and paper.

"Take the bed, I'll take the floor."

Liam's voice pierces through his reverie, and Zayn shakes his head. "I really can't let you do that, man. I'm already imposing enough."

Liam gives him a pointed look, like he's not going to take no for an answer. And he doesn't, even though Zayn makes a fair argument. "Please, Zayn. Just—just go to sleep. I promise I don’t mind."

Zayn makes a disgruntled noise as he watches Liam tug himself to the floor, over what barely looks like a sheet. Liam curls up, lays his head on his pillow and closes his eyes. Zayn is still standing at the end of the bed, watching Liam, fighting every instinct to crawl on the mattress he’s sure smells like apples and springtime, sparking memories of home, his mother’s house. He’s so sure it’s going to lull him to sleep easier that it should.

“Do you,” Zayn starts, cautiously, almost whispering in the dark, “Do you mind if I like ...” He ends up gesturing to his pants, and Liam gives him an odd look.

“Whatever makes you comfortable Zayn.”

And that’s the thing right? All of this; he should be uncomfortable as all hell. Spewing his heart out in the kitchen? Uncomfortable. Being pressed up against Liam’s chest while he’s gasping for breath like he’s drowning? Should have been the most unnerving thing.

But here he is, in a goddamn fire station, shedding his jeans and crawling into Liam’s bed. He closes his eyes, jostles the blanket for a moment before finding himself the slightest bit content lying on his stomach. It’s the worst, he thinks, that he’s so at ease here. With Liam. With Liam in a fire station. Where he works. He knows he can’t be doing this, looking for solace here. He shouldn’t have to. He should be strong enough on his own.

_But_. But he’ll deal with that in the morning.

“Goodnight, Zayn,” Liam calls from the floor, his voice cadenced with a sleepy lilt that warms Zayn down to the tips of his toes.

It takes him a moment to find his voice, but he echoes the sentiment back, a small, “Night, Liam,” before he lets the weight of sleep pull him under.

* * *

It shouldn’t surprise him, but he wakes up alone.

There are a few rays of light that spill from the cracks in the blinds at the window. It’s cold in the room despite the almost summertime temperatures he’s sure to feel as soon as he steps outside. (California is year round summertime with the exception of a few chilly mornings in the winter.)

He doesn’t know what time it is, and it’s eerily quiet for a place that houses dozens of men at a time. He’s not sure if he wants to get up, but he knows he has to. His want for more sleep wins, though, and he lets it win, even through the shrill of his ringing phone. Liam’s pillow smells like home still, even with the slight hint of smoke he’s embedded into it, and Zayn knows it’s Harry calling. He ignores it, lets his eyes flutter closed.

At the very last minute, he realizes he hadn’t dreamt a slick that night.

* * *

Hours later, though, really, it feels like days, Zayn finally pulls himself out of Liam’s bed. He pulls on his jeans, tugging his phone from his pocket to greet the messages Harry’s sure to have left while he’d slept. And sure enough, there are text messages, dripping with worry, a couple of voicemails threatening his life. He gives in and shoots Harry a text.

**_Zayn_ ** **1:46 PM: Calm down. I’m at the fire station _._**

Harry’s response is fast. Sometimes Zayn wonders how it’s even possible.

**_Harry_ ** **1:46 PM: Why? And when did you even leave? I didn’t go to bed until almost two and I checked on you before I did.**

Zayn purses his lips, chews on the bottom for a moment.

**_Zayn_ ** **1:47 PM: A little after three. Icouldn’t sleep. Besides, I left you a note.**

**_Harry_ ** **1:47 PM: Notes don’t cut it, Zayn. You should’ve just woken me. I was worried about you.**

The thing is Zayn knew Harry would say that. He knows Harry would have wanted that. But he couldn’t.

**_Zayn_ ** **1:49 PM: I just need to deal with things. I’m fine, H. Cross my heart.**

Harry doesn’t text back, and Zayn knows he’s upset. But then he receives, **_Harry_ 1:56 PM: .xx**, and Zayn knows it’s alright.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Zayn pockets his phone, wondering whether or not to wait for Liam to come find him, or to just venture bravely into a part of the world he doesn’t know just yet.

The introvert in him decides to stay. He can conquer that later, when he knows his way around. Not that it’s going to happen. Because it isn’t. He isn’t going to become some sort of permanent fixture around here. He’s not out to make friends. He did what he needed to and now he’s found some rest and it’s time to go home.

The door opens abruptly, and instead of Liam, like Zayn had been expecting, it’s Louis, with his ever changing eyes. There’s judgment stirring in them, regarding Zayn with a look so cold he feels a shiver run down his spine.

“Thought you were going _home_?” he says, voice tight, void of emotion.

Zayn furrows his brow. “Had a _thing_. Liam asked me to stay. It’s kind of hard to say no to him, huh?” he tries to make it light, but there’s a sense of _defend yourself_ curling through him, tightening his sinewy muscles. Louis doesn’t look amused.

In fact, he steps all the way into the room, shutting the door behind him. He crosses his arms, tattoos on full display. They don’t catch his attention the way Louis’ tight-lipped grimace does.

“Just—what are you _doing_ here? We get it, you’re grateful. You said what you had to, and now it’s time to go _home_.”

There’s a slight tremor of pure shock that trickles down Zayn’s spine. It feels slimy. “What are you—“

Louis cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “I mean it, Zayn. Liam doesn’t need a little puppy following him around looking for someone to pet him because he’s _restless._ Go home. Get some sleep. It’ll all be over, and when it is, you’ll be fine.” Louis motions his hand towards the door, blue eyes unwavering.

Zayn doesn’t understand, and he’s usually _good_ at this. Understanding people, reading them, _getting_ them. Louis? He doesn’t get at all.

“Louis—“

“Save it, mate. Liam has enough on his plate without _adding_ you to it. He’s already beat up about the kids he couldn’t get to. He doesn’t need the constant reminder, okay? You didn’t see him this morning, looking downright fucking _awful_. It’s part of his job, and Liam, he’s got that big ol’ heart. Just can’t let things go. And you coming around—he doesn’t need one more thing bringing him down. He doesn’t need the _distraction_.”

It’s terrible to hear it like that, for Louis to string those words together and stab them into Zayn like he’s stupid. Sure, it hadn’t crossed his mind that Zayn was a living, breathing reminder that there were others he couldn’t get to. Zayn was still dwelling over that himself. But he didn’t think he’d been _that much_ of a bother.

“You’re a dick, you know that?” Zayn spits, because he’s helpless, because he promised himself he would go, but now he doesn’t _want_ to.

“So I’ve been told. Go home, Zayn.” Louis opens the door and steps out without another word, just as Liam is walking in. He’s half dressed in gear and heat thrums through Zayn, skittering over his flesh. He blinks once. Twice.

Liam wears a crinkly eyed smile that falls when his eyes settle over Zayn’s face. “Hey. You okay?” he asks, and no, Zayn isn’t okay, but he offers Liam a kind smile, because his gratitude deserves that much.

“Fine,” Zayn answers, curt and short, and he wants to take it back but all of Louis’ words stick in his lungs, in his throat. It’s not a response that seems to satisfy Liam, because he comes to sit next to Zayn on the bed. Zayn stands almost immediately. He can’t let himself get too comfortable. He _won’t_.

“Zayn—“

“I have to go. Harry’s waiting for me. He’s been worried all night, even though I left him a fucking note.” His voice is rough, brash, and abrasive in a way it hasn’t been with Liam. Not with Liam who's all kind, crinkly eyes and friendly smiles. Liam, who, quite honestly, has got Zayn intrigued with his Batman posters and family pictures.

“Zayn,” Liam starts again, cocking his head slightly to one side, confusion marring the features of his face, but Zayn shakes his head.

“Thanks so much for letting me crash, mate, but I’ve _obviously_ overstayed my welcome, like. You’ve been so kind, it’s been great, I’m glad I got to know you a little bit.” The _but Louis’ right_ is left unsaid, and Liam must sense it, because his eyes narrow, and he’s rubbing the back of his neck with his hand like he doesn’t understand.

“Alright, yeah,” he offers, and Zayn gives him another smile, tighter than the last.

“Be safe, yeah? Like—don’t go around—“ _risking your_ _life_ , is what Zayn wants to say, but instead he pours out a breathy chuckle, because fuck, that’s his goddamn job. “Just be careful.”

Liam stands and he’s staring at Zayn like he’s missing something. Because he is, and Zayn can’t explain it. He doesn’t want to. He just wants to take the out he’s given and go home.

“Yeah, of course. I—I don’t know what’s going on, Zayn, something’s wrong. Did I do something?” Liam asks anxiously.

Zayn shakes his head. “Nope. Nothing. Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you around, okay?” And then he finally leaves, practically running out of the station and it’s supposed to feel like release, but instead it feels all wrong. He wants to talk to Liam, wants to know about the people in the photos on his wall, and why he chose Batman to hang up, and why he’s even a firefighter at all. But Zayn doesn’t want to be a burden. Doesn’t want to bring him down. So he doesn’t.

* * *

Harry’s on the couch when he gets home. The house smells like banana walnut bread (a godsend really, Harry’s a magician in the kitchen—when it comes to baking at least), and Harry’s got a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. There are wads of tissues littering the floor and Zayn sighs, slides next to Harry and wraps around him.

Harry whines, trying to shove him off. “Don’t, you’ll catch whatever I’ve got.”

Zayn shrugs. “Yeah, yeah. I never get sick.”

It’s not true, not in the slightest, because Zayn does get sick, and when he does, it’s world ending (he’s a complete baby about his stuffy nose and sore throat and cold feet).

“You say that now, dumbass, and then you’re going to be sick and you’re going to expect me to take care of you because you’re absolutely useless.” Harry says all so affectionately.

He doesn’t ask what happened at the station, and for that Zayn’s grateful, because he doesn’t want to explain anything about Liam and his kindness.

Zayn huffs, buries his nose in Harry’s throat, and closes his eyes.

“I slept so well at the station,” Zayn says, like it’s a secret. Like he shouldn’t be talking about this. “I—like, I don’t know. I talked to Liam for a bit—“

Harry interjects with a soft, “That’s the big one, right? Brown eyes?”

“Yeah.” Zayn clears his throat, blinking his eyes open. “He just let me talk, you know? And then I had another attack, but he kind of—I don’t know. Just like. _Consoled_ me, kind of how you do. And I don’t know. He brought me back. Like the first time. And then he told me I should stay, and I did. I didn’t, like. I didn’t mean to, but yeah. He let me sleep in his bed and he took the floor, and then—fuck.”

Harry moves, just slightly, surprised. “What? What happened?”

Zayn doesn’t _know_ is the thing. “Louis basically came and kicked me out. Told me not to come ‘round anymore. Said I was distracting, or some bullshit like that, and yeah, I get it, right? But it’s still kind of fucked up. I left and nothing happened, but I kind of feel like actual shit because of Liam, right? Like he looked at me like I was _ditching_ him. ‘S not fair.”

Harry makes a displeased noise, would’ve probably been classified as a snort if he wasn’t so stuffed up. “Louis; that’s the one who took us home, yeah?”

Zayn nods.

“He was so nice in the car, you know? Like worried about you that day.” Harry pulls back to look at Zayn. (Zayn notices that Harry looks downright terrible, red tipped nose, watery eyes, and pale skin.)

Zayn grunts in response. It’s a fact that he doesn’t much care for many people, and Louis’ removed himself off of that list of people he _could_ care about.

“Doesn’t make sense,” Zayn murmurs. And he wishes it did, because really, honestly, he kind of wants to see Liam again. Wants to sleep in his bed, but this time, he wouldn’t mind sharing the space, filling up the dark space of the room with secrets. With the anecdotes of their past lives, of their childhoods. Of things they wouldn’t quite let other people become privy to.

(There’s a part of him, deep down, that wants to fit his mouth over that dark splotch of a birthmark on Liam’s neck, but that’s neither here, nor there.)

“I’m going to bed. I can’t breathe through my nose and I think I can sleep this off. I have a date tomorrow night.” Harry disentangles himself from Zayn, plopping a disgustingly wet kiss to Zayn’s forehead.

“A date? On a Tuesday?”

Harry, despite his cold, glows like a million watt light bulb. “Yes, on a Tuesday. He’s a nice guy, I guess. A little cheeky, but tall and dark haired, and he thinks I have a nice ass. It’ll do.”

Zayn shakes his head, but gives Harry a smile, fond and endearing, because if anything in the world is true, it’s that Zayn loves Harry.

“What’s his name? I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone.”

Harry smiles like he’s shy, like he’s a little bit sorry. “Yeah, his name is Ben.”

Zayn grins at Harry, nodding. “Fine, fine. I won’t wait up then. I’m gonna head to the studio. Been itching for it.”

Harry nods gathering his blanket, but leaves the mess of used tissues on the floor. Neither of them mentions it, and Zayn knows if Harry hasn’t done so already, it’ll be him who cleans up the mess. He really better not get sick from this.

* * *

The studio is really a rundown building with large windows and open space. Zayn rents it for pretty cheap considering it’s the one place he considers his solace with the money he gets from working at the library downtown.

(They don’t nag him to come back, and he’s just not ready to go, not yet.)

There’s a cot in the corner, a blanket and a pillow neatly folded on top. Harry always gets worried about Zayn sleeping in here with all the paint fumes, but Zayn thinks it smells like home here. Like his room in his mother’s house, with paint splattered on the walls, careful in designs.

There’s a mound of clay in the middle of the room, where he’s supposed to be sculpting. He attacks it after he opens the curtains and the windows, letting the sunlight in.

He’s not sure what he’s doing, what direction he’s going. It’s cathartic and therapeutic to beat up a mountain of clay, unloading all his stress and worries onto the shapeless lump. His fingers ache and his stomach grumbles, he still hasn’t brushed his teeth or changed his clothes from the night before, and it’s all so—calming.

Zayn struggles for breath, to keep himself standing while he’s so into it; a cigarette hangs from his lips and he’s wiping sweat off his brow with the back of his forearm. There’s clay everywhere, all over him. It’s dark before he breaks away.

He’s got the semblance of a body going; he’s not sure who it is yet, but there’s a strong sense of _it’s you_ that courses through him.

The project for the art show he signed up for ages ago is theme-less and he was never one for self-portraits, but with all the turmoil and self-conflict he’s been experiencing of late, it’s eerily fitting. He’s so used to taking his frustrations to a canvas, attacking with a paint brush and series of bright, sharp, vibrant colors. But this, this feels like soul searching.

(He didn’t know he needed to find himself. Didn’t know he was this lost.)

It’s stupid, he thinks. It’s stupid that he feels this way. It was just weeks ago that he was feeling so sure of himself. So confident, growing into his brown skin and dark eyes and his postured gait. He was growing into himself and he loved it. And now, having seen the side of almost-tragedy, Zayn isn’t sure he knows who he is anymore.

It’s having taken things for granted what gets him the most. Not calling his mother enough, not listening to Harry talk, and not taking advantage of the pure sunlight streaming through the window of his bedroom.

The inhale of smoke is shaky as the ashes from his cigarette fall to the floor; he’s too wrapped up in his thoughts to find something to resemble an ashtray.

Art has been the one constant in his life, since he’d first dipped his fingers in paint all those years ago—seems like forever ago. It’s the one thing he understands. The one thing that understands _him_. And to think, it was being so lost in concentration, in his art that he didn’t notice the room go up in flames.

It still haunts him, the nightmares. The wound on his shoulder is bearable, just blistered skin that would heal nicely, maybe scar a little. But the heat still sticks to his skin, the cloudiness of the smoke, the stranger shouting at him, trying to get him to safety.

He knows it was Liam. That much is obvious. He knows it was Liam who grabbed him, threw him over his shoulder, and hurried him out of the building. He also knows it was a _job_ for Liam to do. Still, he’s gutted that the lot of firefighters were so surprised at him for showing up, for thanking them.

Which leads him to think about Louis. Louis and his resolve and reserved demeanor, and how the _fuck_ — _who_ _is_ _he_ to tell Zayn who he could and couldn’t see?

Zayn stubs his cigarette out, ready to call it night. Go home, get some sleep, get over it all and move on. Everyone else seems to have done so already.

He gives his nowhere-near-done sculpture one last look before closing up behind him.

* * *

His bed is cold and the window is still open.

Harry’s knocked out cold, probably hopped up on antibiotics and cough suppressant; Zayn makes sure his window hasn’t been left open and he’s wearing socks, tucked neatly under the comforter before shutting Harry’s door closed.

There’s shit to eat in the fridge, so he calls for takeaway, gets a share for Harry, though he knows Harry isn’t going to eat (but just in case).

Flicking on the television, there’s shit to watch, so Zayn tunes out. He thinks some more, which, admittedly, only serves to make him angry, a deep kind of anger that simmers until he’s boiling with heat.

It shouldn’t be like this. Nothing should be like this.

It shouldn’t have happened in the first place. His bright idea, thanking the heroes that saved his life, yeah, but now it all seemed to stem a mess and grow into more problems for him, more things to think about during his restless nights.

The problem, Zayn supposes, is that he can’t stop thinking about Liam.

Liam and his crinkly smile, his dark brown eyes, pink lips, and his curly hair and that stupid birthmark—

His arms and his chest and the goddamn smell of his bed—

His voice and his broken sigh, and the _something’s wrong_ —

He’d go to the station, he would, but he’s not in the mood to deal with Louis’ guard-dog attitude, and not quite ready to fake a smile for Niall. He just wants to explain that maybe he felt safe around Liam, and wanted to stick around for a little while and figure him out.

He’d wanted to make things complicated, apparently.

Zayn eats his food and falls asleep on the couch. Doesn’t dream, barely moves. Just sleeps.

* * *

Harry is all energy the next morning. He’s uncharacteristically cleaning their flat, picking up clothes, shoving away shoes, bringing out the _fucking vacuum_ while Zayn is sleeping.

“What gives, Styles?” Zayn mumbles from the sofa, where he’s curled in on himself. He doesn’t know what time it is, but he’s going to bet it’s fucking early.

Harry gives him a cheeky smile, showing off his dimples. “Date tonight, remember?”

Zayn’s at a loss of what Harry’s date has to do with the vacuum. “Yeah, so?”

Harry gives him a pointed look, like it’s simple to understand. “Yeah, so, if this date goes well, he comes home with me, I get laid, and he gets breakfast in the morning.”

Zayn pouts. “Where’m I s’posed to go?” He sits up on the couch, scratches his limbs. He groans when his body cracks and he slumps against the back of the sofa, curling in on himself.

“Too much to ask you to be a good friend and shack up at the studio? Just for one night?”

It should wound him, really, but it doesn’t. He’s stayed there enough nights that it’s not something foreign to him. Zayn pouts, but there’s not really any emotion behind it. “Yeah, whatever. I have a project to finish anyway.”

(The school could burn to a crisp, Zayn realizes, but it doesn’t stop the academics. They’re on break now, due to go back soon; it’s been a month, and the art department is almost completely out of commission, but they’ll only just relocate somewhere else. He’ll get an email with the details, he’s sure. It’s best that they don’t go back. Zayn doesn’t think he can handle it. Not yet.)

Harry smiles, radiating gratitude. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I really like this guy.”

Zayn returns his smile. “Good. You deserve someone good for you, yeah?”

Harry echoes his, “Yeah,” and doesn’t dwell on the conversation. After all, the two of the paired together makes for nothing but an enormous mess that no one cares to bother with. Not until it counts at least.

Zayn leaves Harry to the living room and makes his way to his bedroom. He could fall back to sleep; it would be all too easy to burrow underneath the covers and make himself disappear for a while, but his mouth feels gross and he needs a shower and a cigarette to start the day. It’s half past noon, he notices when he glances at the clock on his nightstand. Nowhere to be, but things to do. Art he needs to focus on.

The shower is quick, Zayn making work of his flesh to rub off dirt and sweat from the last day and a half. He brushes his teeth and forgoes doing anything with his hair, pulling a beanie over his head. A red t-shirt and black jeans completes the rest of his outfit, along with a pair of boots. He pockets his phone, keys, and cigarettes, tucking one behind his ear and setting one to his lips as he sets to leave.

* * *

He takes his time with his piece now.

There’s meticulous attention to detail he hadn’t been aware of yesterday. He doesn’t even have a proper carving yet, but he can see it, see himself in the soft brown of the clay, angles and curves and sharp edges. It’s coming along.

The entire time, much to his chagrin, he thinks about Liam. Not about what Louis said, but about Liam, the man himself, the little he’s revealed. It’s got to be absolutely stupid of Zayn to want to know someone this much. But he’s reminded of the photos on his walls, the Batman posters, the Pacific Rim poster, the smell of his sheets where apple and something deep and woodsy was featured all over the fabric of his pillow. He wonders if it smelled like him after he left, if he left an indent of smoke and paint fumes one Liam’s bed. He wonders how Liam became a fireman, if he has any talents like Zayn, if he’s at all artistic, if he likes comic book characters as much as Zayn does. He wonders about his family, if the girls in the photo are his sisters, if the man and woman had been his mother and father. He wonders where he’s from, what he likes to do when he isn’t working, what the hell his favorite fucking color is. He just wonders, a lot, and it frustrates him.

He has no reason to keep his distance. What Louis’ said was unwarranted, and it isn’t like Liam had said anything to him that resembled accordance. In fact, if Zayn remembered correctly, Liam had tried to get Zayn to stay.

Zayn slips and digs too deep in the clay and calls for a break. A break that turns into chain-smoking a handful of cigarettes over the next hour and then burrowing underneath the blanket on the cot and sleeping the afternoon away, everything else be damned.

* * *

Harry’s date goes extraordinarily terribly. And that’s saying something for Harry because the guy is nothing but sweet and optimistic.

Zayn comes home to a messy living room in the morning and finds Harry sitting stoic on the sofa; he knows something is immediately wrong the way Harry is curled into himself, even with his long, long limbs.

“Harry, babe, what happened?”

Harry turns to look at him, frown sinking the corners of his lips. He doesn’t quite look like he wants to say anything, but he does anyway. “He—he’s married? Like who does that, you know?”

And it’s got to be the lowest blow—Harry’s good at seeing the best in a shitty situation, but there’s no working around that. Not really. Not at all, actually.

Zayn sinks onto the sofa next to Harry, taking the tall, gangly boy into his arms. Harry goes into him willingly, lets his head fall onto Zayn’s shoulder. Zayn wants to say a million things, all akin to, “You’re better than him,” and “He doesn’t deserve you,” but Harry’s talking before he gets the chance.

“Like, he just—we’re eating, in the middle of dinner, and she just walks up. Just walks up and sits down, and stares at me, asking me who the hell _I_ am. I didn’t think—I just, I didn’t stick around for the damage, and I liked him, but not enough to defend him against his wife. His _wife_. For five years! How do you marry someone, proclaim you love them, and then go looking around for someone else?” Harry sniffles and buries his face in the crook of Zayn’s neck.

“Harry, it’s not your fault—“

Harry huffs. “I _know_ that. But _still._ I’m allowed to be a little bit heartbroken. He was—sometimes it was like he was almost _too_ good. And I should have picked up on it sooner, I guess. What with the only ever meeting when it was convenient for him. Texting at one o'clock in the morning because she was probably fast asleep in their bed.”

Harry’s voice sounds bitter now, and he’s got every right to be. It’s just not something you do to a person.

“You wanna get your mind off of it? We could bake something,” Zayn murmurs. Harry doesn’t quite move, so Zayn goes, “Look, babe, you’re going to find someone. You’re only nineteen. Someone will come along and charm you with their smile, someone who’s an excellent lover, and will probably have the skills to make you dinner. They’ll make you laugh, and hold your hand, and will never ever have to hide you, because they’ll know that you’re one in a million, alright?”

Harry’s smile is bright and blinding even if he is teary eyed; he shakes his head and swipes Zayn’s nose with a finger. “How’d I get so lucky with you?”

Zayn barks out a laugh. “You literally sat next to me in elementary and claimed we were best friends. I’m still just going along with it.”

Rolling his eyes, Harry chuckles and moves from the couch. “So what are we baking then? Not something for the firemen, right?”

It hits a sore spot in Zayn; he’s been doing so well not thinking about it, but maybe it’s for the best that he actually talks about it. It was something, right? But Zayn shakes his head. “Nah. Just for me and you, yeah?”

Harry nods, curls bobbing around his face, dimples like canyons in his cheeks. “Brownies, then? I’ve been craving a bit of chocolate. Could brush up on my skills; haven’t made brownies in forever.” He’s off to the kitchen, and when Zayn finds him, he’s busy already, mixing flour and cocoa, sugar and water, adding walnuts.

Harry grabs Zayn by the wrist, pulling him in, rattling off what he needs and how they’ll do it, and _No, Zayn, not yet_ and _Stop licking the bowl, Zayn_.

Zayn forgets about it all for just a little while.

* * *

Zayn does, against his will, get sick. (And he’s a big baby about it, whining for Harry to make him better, though, really, there’s nothing Harry can do but run his fingers through Zayn’s hair and _shh_ him while they watch _Finding Nemo_ on loop for seven hours.)

He’s camped on the sofa, a box of tissues on the coffee table alongside several half-filled mugs of cold tea. Harry’s gone to class, and Zayn is slipping in and out of consciousness, coming to when the heat of his blanket becomes too much and fuels his head to rerun dreams of the fire.

Zayn is searching for another box of tissues when he gives up, just grabs a roll of toilet paper from underneath the sink in their bathroom. He’s back on the couch when he hears a knock on his door. It shouldn’t startle him the way it does, but not many people come to visit he and Harry. It’s mostly their parents, Harry’s sister, Gemma, and from time to time, his own sisters, but he isn’t expecting any of them, and Harry hasn’t dropped any hints that his family would be by. The apartment is disgusting with Zayn being sick and Harry being lazy; and the headache sitting at the back of his head isn’t up for company right now. He’s got a half a mind of just ignoring it, waiting for the person on the other side to go away; anyone important has a key.

Against his better judgment, he goes to answer it, keeping the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He cracks the door but only slightly, and almost slams it shut.

“Liam?”

The man in question smiles sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck with one of his big hands, the other tucked neatly in the front pocket of his jeans.

“Hey,” Liam says softly, like he’s trying not to scare Zayn away. It’s not quite working. All of the feelings Zayn has been trying to repress come back up, riding his throat like the acidic bile that threatens to make an appearance. Zayn swallows thickly, opens the door wide enough for Liam to pass through.

“How’d you know where I live?” Zayn questions, watches a blush paint Liam’s cheeks.

“I looked you up. Wasn’t that hard, since, you know, the accident. Just had to look in the paperwork for your details,” Liam says gently, like Zayn might turn him away.

Liam looms in the room, too big for the tiny space of his and Harry’s clutter, Zayn notices. (Zayn also notices the way the dark wash of Liam’s jeans hug his thighs and the blue plaid shirt strains over his biceps. It’s really … _nice_.) Zayn makes a face, a semi-apology for the mess that surrounds them. Liam sighs, and takes Zayn in; Zayn feels scrutinized underneath his gaze, his too heavy brown eyes and the way they flicker up and down Zayn’s body.

“Have you eaten?” Liam asks, and it’s like he’s in overdrive, suddenly, dragging Zayn to the sofa, and pushing him to lay down. Zayn doesn’t have a moment to say _no, but I can’t really keep anything down_ before Liam has disappeared into the kitchen. Zayn lets him. He doesn’t know what Liam is doing here, honestly doesn’t really want to think about it, but he’ll let Liam run the show if he wants (honestly, Zayn doesn’t mind someone looking over him while he feels this shitty).

Zayn lets himself doze off for a little while, but he’s shaken awake, Liam kneeling in front of him, face too close. Zayn blinks his eyes open, and finds that he likes Liam being this close. Wants to keep him close like this. It’s too much for his sick brain to muddle through. He can’t breathe through his nose and when his breath catches in his throat, he’s thrown into a coughing fit.

Liam helps him sit up, and hands him a bowl filled with soup, noodles and chunks of vegetables, and if he could smell, he thinks it’d be amazing. He’s so consumed with adoration for this man that he hates Liam a little for it.

“I just threw something together; I hope you don’t mind.” Liam’s voice is gentle, a soft caress against Zayn’s skin.

Zayn shakes his head. “No, no,” he croaks, “this is—I’m sure this isn’t what you came to do.”

Liam lets out a chuckle. “No, but I don’t mind. You look out of sorts,” he says with a smile that makes his eyes shine like wildfire.

Zayn eats, sipping and stopping every so often to get through a raucous coughing fit or two. Liam sits by him the entire time, rubs his back when it gets to be too much. Halfway through the bowl, Zayn sets it down on the coffee table, doesn’t hesitate to gravitate towards Liam and his warmth, curling up against his side. Liam wraps an arm around Zayn’s shoulders, and Zayn settles easily, letting his body sag against Liam.

“Why _did_ you come over?” Zayn whispers, like his voice will break the silence, like it’ll shatter the nice feeling that climbs down his spine and makes itself a home in the spaces between his ribs.

Liam is silent for a moment, but he shifts, pulling away from Zayn. Zayn sits up, pulling the blanket around his shoulders and doesn’t quite meet Liam’s gaze, but then he forces himself to, and it seems to give Liam the chance to speak.

“You left so fast the other day and I didn’t—I didn’t want you to go just yet. And well, now I’m here to make sure you’re okay? I was—I was worried about you. Told you I would be,” Liam says with a crinkly-eyed smile and Zayn’s heart ignites into a kick-drum rhythm, pounding blood through his ears, loud enough that he struggles to hear Liam’s nervous laugh.

Zayn frowns, doesn’t comment on the fact that Liam had worried about him, when it was clearly the last thing he’d wanted. “What’s Louis’ deal, anyway?” he starts. And he wants to take it back, because he doesn’t want Liam to think it’d been his friend who’d made Zayn run off back home to lick his own wounds.

It’s Liam’s turn to make a face, a bit of pouting where his bottom lip juts out. “What—I don’t understand what you mean?”

Zayn can feel himself seethe, the anger pitted deep simmer in his bloodstream. “I _mean_ that he basically kicked me out, told me you don’t need _another_ distraction. A reminder.” _That you don’t need me_.

Liam’s eyes are downcast, but when he lifts them, they’re bright and thick with uneasiness and fury and melancholy. It shocks Zayn a little, tightens around his heart and tugs, curls around his lungs and suffocates. He doesn’t let it get too far, starts counting in his head before it does. _One. Two. Three. Four._

“Louis—Louis is just bitter. Doesn’t like when people come around the station because—it’s not quite my place to tell the story but—but don’t listen to him, alright? You’re not a distraction. I—I don’t know what you are, but it’s not that, yeah?” Liam reaches out his hand, and takes Zayn, traces the bird on the back of his hand before intertwining their fingers.

(It’s intimate; hand holding. Zayn’s never really done it with the people he’s been with. It’s mostly just getting off, mostly dirty kissing when they can, mostly just empty beds in the morning where he’s slightly put off that no one wants to kiss away the dewy mornings with him. Hand holding’s always been a _thing_ for Zayn, because he works with his hands. Because he creates with them. Because they’re a testament to his strength, to his weakness. His hands are how he says _Stay, please_ , they’re what hold him together when he feels himself breaking. They’re everything to him, and here’s Liam, reaching out to hold his hand.)

Zayn smiles, really smiles, even through the fact he can’t breathe through his nose, that his head is pounding with a mind-numbing headache, even though he’s tired enough to long for sleep to consume him whole, he _beams_. Because Liam was worried about him, because Liam wanted to see him, because fuck, Liam made him chicken noodle soup in the middle of the day on a boring Thursday.

“I didn’t _want_ to go. I—it was for the best, right? Like, Louis was proper angry, and I didn’t get it at first. But then, like, I didn’t want to be a distraction, either. Didn’t want to remind you of the day you got me out and couldn’t go back for the others. I’m sorry—“ Zayn cuts himself off, choked up and struggling for breath.

Liam tightens his fingers around Zayn’s and Zayn brings himself back, counting for just a moment, and Liam waits for him patiently, soothing small circles into the back of his hand with his thumb. Zayn looks up at Liam, lets a smile curl on his lips.

“I’m really glad you came by,” Zayn murmurs, lets himself slump against Liam again, and this time, Liam doesn’t pull away.

“Me too, Zayn.”

* * *

When Zayn wakes up, the coffee table is cleared from the mugs and when his eyes drop to the floor, all of his nasty, snot-filled tissues are cleared. The television is off, and the twinkling stars say the sun has gone down ages ago. He lets consciousness come slowly, blinking his eyes up at the ceiling.

At least he can fucking breathe through his nose.

He can hear chatter in the kitchen and for a moment, he wonders if Harry’s got a friend over, but then the memory of Liam comes rushing back to him, and he’s sitting up (too fast; his head _rushes_ and for a split second there’s nausea, but he swallows it down).

He stands, stretches his muscles and shivers when his bones crack into place. Yawning, he drags himself to the kitchen; Liam is standing against the counter, leaning back with a mug in his hands and Harry’s leaning over the stove, stirring something in a pot.

He hasn’t known Liam for very long. A handful of days, really, a couple of stolen moments where Liam’s given him his undivided attention (where Liam’s held his hand). The scene shouldn’t affect him the way it does, is the point. He shouldn’t feel warmth flood through him as he sees Liam smile, eyes glittering as Harry says something funny, curls bouncing and dimples pressed deep in his cheeks. It feels, Zayn thinks, a lot like home should.

“Hey,” he murmurs, announcing himself present and Harry looks over to him, walking over to him to pull him into a hug. Over Harry’s shoulder, he can see Liam smile at him, pink lips curled upwards and Zayn smiles back before he lets his eyes fall shut, taking in the citrusy scent of Harry’s skin.

“Feeling better?” Harry asks, and Zayn nods.

“Loads,” Zayn answers, pulling back. “I’m sure it’s because of Liam,” he continues.

Harry seems happy about that, radiating light. “It was nice of him to stop by again. He was telling me my cookies were a hit. He was just about to give me a hand with a batch. You up for it?”

Zayn looks between Liam and Harry and shakes his head. Liam gives him a confused look.

“I’m just going to shower,” he says by way of explanation. Keeping Liam’s gaze, he grins. “I’ll leave Harry to boss you around for a bit. He’s a menace in the kitchen.”

Liam laughs, giving a look to Harry. “I’m sure whatever happens, I’ve been through worse.” He grins at Zayn and Zayn chuckles. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Zayn.”

Zayn floods with that warm feeling again, and nods. “Yeah, me too.”

* * *

In the shower, Zayn is quick to scrub himself clean. He washes his hair, brushes his teeth, and lets the water pelt his back for a while. He lets himself savor the feeling of being alone, but not lonely. Never lonely, not with Harry always with him, not with Liam checking on him. Not with his mother’s frequent phone calls and his sisters’ skyping him. Not lonely, not ever.

In his bedroom, he pulls a pair of jeans over his legs, strides over to the window and opens it a crack before lighting up a cigarette. He doesn’t flinch at the flame, doesn’t wince when the smoke fills his lungs. It feels a little bit like freedom, he thinks.

It feels fucking good.

* * *

Liam stays for a couple hours, before it gets too late. Harry’s howling with laughter the whole time, and Zayn seems to get a million crinkly eyed smiles from Liam. It’s nice, he thinks, likes the way Liam doesn’t leave his side for too long, touches him gently (on the small of his back, on his forearm, grabs his hand here and there, entwines their fingers like they’ve known each other for longer than they have). He likes the way Liam fits into their too small apartment (he likes the way it feels too big when Liam’s gone, like there’s extra space to fill without him there).

Harry doesn’t prod him with a million questions; Harry says, “Liam’s nice. He should stick around.”

Zayn thinks so, too. He really does.

* * *

He works constantly at the studio; he stays away from the station, doesn’t want to cause rifts between friends, not if Louis doesn’t like him. He’s got enough to keep himself busy and not bother Liam while he’s working; the Library’s taken him back and he’s started shelving books again on the off days he doesn’t have class, getting lost in the passages of chunky books, until one of the older women are snapping him out of his literary reveries and getting him back to work.

The studio, though, while Liam is working, becomes his solace. He can pound his frustrations into his clay mold, smoothing out fingertips and eyelids and the slope of his own nose. He works hard, carving away, hands caked in clay until he has to stop and take a breath. He’ll throw himself into a painting, whether it’s with the cans or brushes is a tossup. He’s diligent with his art, until Harry’s dragging him back home for dinner, for sleep, for a shower.

He knows Zayn’s got worry and concern buried deep inside of him, but honestly, it can’t be helped. Not really. Not when Liam is out there, risking his life.

* * *

It’s a Tuesday; it’s blistering outside and the small library has lost its air conditioning. Zayn’s got a half a mind to strip from his t-shirt, or rip the sleeves off at the very least, but he’s settled for unbuttoning the top of the oxford, hating himself for his sincere devotion to his jeans. He’s stocking books on the shelves, teen romance novels and series, new returns that he can’t help but poke his nose through, paging through several of them before shoving them back on the bookshelves, reading whatever catches his eye. (They’re no Wilde, Hemingway, or Dostoevsky, but they still pique his interest.)

Harry’s notorious for stopping by with baked goods and a laugh; but today it’s Liam, dressed in flannel with the sleeves pushed up strong forearms and jeans with tears at the knees, a bandana tied to his belt loop, heavy boots and a soft smile. There’s music playing overhead, something overtly pop-ish with the thick sound of a guitar.

“Hey, Zayn,” Liam says easily, walking towards him where he’s been leaning against a bookcase for ages; he’s moved onto the astronomy section, reading on Jupiter’s moons. Zayn gives Liam an easy smile, setting the book on the stack atop the cart.

“Hey, Leeyum,” he returns, and Liam’s cheeks go pink and it’s a nice look for him.

“I like when you say my name like that, you know?” Liam says. There’s a grin tugging his lips. “Most people say it normal-like, but you’ve always got to be different, don’t you?”

Zayn laughs, shrugging his shoulders. “I guess so, _Leeyum,_ ” he returns playfully, not for a second missing the way Liam’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. “What are you doing here?” Zayn asks (instead of taking the lip-licking as an invitation to kiss him).

Liam shoves his hands in his pockets, shrugging his shoulders. “I—Harry said you’d be here when I stopped by the flat, and I wanted to see you. Thought maybe I could take you for lunch. If you haven’t already? I mean, you get an hour for lunch, right?”

Zayn laughs, feeling that usual warmth he feels around Liam flood through him. He nods, chewing at his bottom lip. “Yeah, yeah, I do. I haven’t taken mine yet, so, uh, sure. I’d like to. Go with you, I mean,” Zayn stutters through, running his fingers through product-less hair.  “Just let me tell the ladies in the office so they don’t think I’ve run away with you.”

Liam gives him a cool grin, and nods, following him down the aisle of space books. Zayn has the upmost respect for books, yeah, but he’s got this feeling simmering underneath his skin that makes him want to turn around and shove Liam up against the bookshelves and slot his legs between Liam’s and kiss him stupid.

“Mary,” Zayn says instead, once he’s reached the counter. Liam stands next to him, hands still in his pockets, stance inviting; Zayn doesn’t get to see Liam in street clothes often, and today, it’s messing with him something fierce. “I’ll be taking my lunch now, if that’s alright.”

Mary, an older woman with long white hair and sharp brown eyes flickers her vision away from the computer screen at the desk where she’s sitting to eye Zayn. She flits her eyes over to Liam, too, smiling just enough for Zayn to catch the upturn of her mouth. “Alright, love,” she says, “Just be back in an hour, alright?”

Zayn nods minutely, grateful, and instinctively reaches for Liam’s arm, wrapping his fingers around Liam’s wrist and tugging along.

It’s when they’re outside that Liam slips their fingers together, and really, neither of them mentions it.

* * *

They pick up sandwiches and slushees and small containers of fruit (and candy bars at Liam’s insistence) and sit in a park close to the library. It’s sweltering out; they should have opted for somewhere with air conditioning, but they find a neat patch of shade underneath a large tree.

(The heat beckons something drowsy in Zayn, and it’d be so easy to suck down the rest of his slushee and rest against Liam’s side, close his eyes and drift off; too easy.)

“Harry’s quite the character,” Liam says passively. Zayn turns to look at Liam, a smile playing the corners of his lips, spreading them pink. Zayn laughs.

“Yeah. He’s been my best friend for so long it’s kind of hard to imagine him not there, you know? We were always kind of opposites, him and me. But for some reason, we work amazingly as friends.”

Liam looks pensive; eyebrows knit together. “He mentioned that,” he says, “the first time I came over. He’s protective of you, that’s for sure. But I guess I’d be, too, someone as great as you.”

Zayn can’t help himself, can’t control his face when it contorts into shock. “You know almost nothing about me; how can you say that?”

Liam shrugs. “I just know. It’s not like—it’s not something I’d forget, you know? Like...” Liam hesitates, picks at the hole in the knee of his jeans. “You didn’t want to come with me when I came into the room you were in. You kept fighting me off, shouting at me that there were other people. And sometimes it’s annoying, you know? The martyrs, the self-sacrificial types. And I almost—I almost listened to you. But I just couldn’t; I don’t know why, or whatever. I just knew that I couldn’t skip you. There were others following behind me, Josh and Niall and a few other guys, and I told them what you told me.” Liam smiles, blindingly wide at Zayn and it makes the panic prickling in his chest subside, but only slightly. He still doesn’t like talking about the fire, no matter how soothing the lilt of Liam’s voice is; he listens intently anyway. “I’m just—I know that I’m glad I didn’t listen to you, yeah?”

Zayn stares at Liam, maybe for a moment too long, because Liam’s smile falters slightly. But he reaches his hand out, takes Liam’s hand in his own. “Believe me,” Zayn says, voice thick, complete surprise lodged in his throat. “I’m glad you didn’t listen to me either.”

* * *

After that, just about everything flows easily. Too easily; sometimes Zayn can’t stop himself from saying certain things, brushing upon certain subjects (his family, his religion, his sexuality), but spews it anyway, and Liam listens, intense, eyes on Zayn almost the whole time. He tells Liam how he’s lived here in the States his whole life, how his family is originally from England. Zayn learns so much about Liam then, too. His family, his sisters, how he grew up surrounded by the Redwood trees, how he studied so, so hard to become a firefighter, how it’s scared the shit out of his parents, his sisters, the people he’s dated, the kids that used to bully him when he was younger. He talks loads about Louis and Niall, how Niall’s been his friend since the beginning of high school, how Niall had been just one of a few friends, the only one that stuck after they’d graduated.

(There’s a feeling that burns inside of him when Zayn carefully encroaches on the subject of Liam’s own sexuality, and how Liam answers so easily; _it doesn’t matter, does it? I mean, people are people, and I tend to like nice people._

There’s the brutal beating of his heart when Zayn says, “So, you’re into dudes?”

Liam only grins and counters with, “I’m into you.”)

He’s interesting is the thing, Liam. His childish love for superheroes and movies and comics. His devotion to his family. His dedication to his work. The fact that he’s got tattoos lining the undersides of his forearms because they mean something (Zayn and Harry can attest to having had tattoos inked in their skin just because it simply looked cool). Liam who wrinkles his nose when Zayn pulls out a cigarette to light, but doesn’t mind when Zayn smokes it down to the cotton; Liam who watches with enthralled fascination while Zayn’s lips curl around the filter. Liam with his messy hair and his wide smiles and the crinkles by his eyes and the slope of his nose and the birthmark over his throat. Liam and the width of his shoulders and the comfort of his hands. Liam and his brown, brown eyes.

(And how’s he supposed to fight the feelings that clutter his chest, make his heart race? He’s not putting up much of a fight at all, really; honestly, he doesn’t _want_ to.)

* * *

They don’t hold hands on their walk back to the library, but they walk close enough that their shoulders and hands brush, even under the heat of the sun sitting fat and bright overhead.

When Liam leaves him, he promises that he’ll come round the next day at the same time for the same thing, and Zayn nods along, smiling all the while. _Yes, yes, I’d like that_ on the tip of his tongue.

Shelving books with Liam running back and forth in his mind is no easy feat.

* * *

Liam’s let his schedule slip; it’s quite easy to follow, really. Two days working, a whole forty eight hours at the station, and then four days off to fuck around and do whatever he wants. It’s a nice schedule, Zayn thinks, but he’s worried when Liam’s at the station, when he sees the news and hears talk about fires and this is fucking California, there’s a drought and there are constant fires spreading through the state. Some more extensive than others, but it worries Zayn for a full forty eight hours, until he knows Liam is safe and sound.

They text, frequently, a lot, so much that Harry pokes fun of him for it. They’re just friends looking out for each other, Zayn is convinced, until Harry makes an offhand comment like, “Friends? Please, Zayn, you’re insulting me. He looks at you like the sun shines out of your ass.”

Of course, Zayn will answer, “Because it does, asshole,” and it’ll send Harry into a fit of laughter.

(Still, there’s _warmth_ that crawls down his spine and settles deep in his stomach when he thinks about it.)

* * *

(February comes quickly, marked first with Harry’s twentieth birthday. It’s a simple affair, a cake that Zayn helps make, singing _Happy Birthday_ , and welcoming age twenty like every year before.)

* * *

It’s a Wednesday night when Harry bursts into their apartment, grinning madly with a dazed look in his eyes. He doesn’t offer up information to Zayn on why he’s so happy, so Zayn waits for it, the explanation, and when it doesn’t come, even as Harry falls beside him on the sofa, Zayn has to drag it out of him.

“You gonna tell me what’s got you so fucking _chipper_?” Zayn asks, muting the television and setting down the sketchbook atop the coffee table.

Harry sighs, but his smile gives him away. He _wants_ to spill; Zayn can feel the eagerness radiating off of him.

“You’ll never guess who I saw come round the bakery,” Harry starts. “I was just minding my own business, getting the scones in the display case, right? It’s Wednesday, so I’m by myself on the register, which can be pretty taxing if I don’t listen for the door and then I get a line, and Christ I had the worst customer today, a real asshole—“

“Harry, please,” Zayn snips, cutting off his tangent. Harry shakes his head, tugs at the ripped thighs of his jeans.

“Right, right. Anyway, so the blonde one, right? Niall. Yeah. He came round this morning, looking for coffee and a muffin, and the store was empty so he invited me to sit with him, and we talked for ages—God, like, ages, right? And I’m going on and trying to tell him a story, and he gets this dopey smile on his face and it’s all just really cute, and then he asks me to dinner, like a real date. And I think I may have put him off by asking if he was single, and making sure he wasn’t married or cheating on his spouse which prompted me to tell _that_ story, even though it made me look stupid, but he just took my hand and promised to be good to me.” Harry sucks in a breath and looks pointedly at Zayn, incredulous. “Who does that, Zayn? Who does that?”

Zayn can’t help but smile; he likes Niall, his laugh and his stories and his inexplicable inability to create a chill, relaxed atmosphere in the midst of chaos and tension. And; and he likes the thought of Harry liking Niall, too, thinks that they could work. They seem to already.

“Niall does, I guess,” Zayn answers easily, but he’s wearing a pleased grin, reaching over to sling an arm around Harry’s shoulders.

Harry snorts a laugh. “I just didn’t think I’d be so into someone so short?”

Zayn chuckles and shakes his head. “Maybe he’s got a big dick to make up for it.”

They’re caught in laughter, Harry snuggling up close to Zayn’s side. Harry sobers up pretty fast, however.

“It’s one date, I know. And it hasn’t even happened yet, but like, I’m worried? Because if he’s as amazing as I think he is, then I’m completely fucked, Zayn.”

Zayn runs his fingers through Harry’s curls. “How do you mean?” he asks, because finding love can fuck a person up, yes, in the best and worst possible ways, but that’s the best thing about it.

“He’s a firefighter. Like Liam. And I see you sit here and worry about Liam every time he’s not here, when he’s on shift or on call or—I don’t know if I can do that,” Harry murmurs.

Zayn sighs, closing his eyes and leaning back against the sofa. It’s true; Zayn’s level of concern is through the roof if Liam isn’t right by his side, and Zayn can only imagine what it’d be like for Harry, who worries about things ten times as much as the normal person. “Like you said, though. It’s just one date, and who knows? Maybe you’ll be better off as friends. But, if it—if you—like, if it’s more than that. Then you just deal with it. Because they’re worth it, even though you’re worried every minute that they might not—most of the shit they do is boring anyway. You can hear Niall complain about it all the time. But I guess, I don’t know, Harry. It’s just something that comes with these guys. You take it or leave it.”

Harry purses his lips. “And what about Liam? Are you still wondering if you’re going to ‘take it’?” Harry grins. “Looks like he can ‘give it’ pretty well.”

Zayn turns to face Harry full on, staring deadpan. “Fuck you.”

Harry smacks a kiss to his cheek. “Whatever you say, lover boy. Don’t think I don’t see the way you watch him when he’s here, yeah? Or the little sketches in your notebook. Or fuck, when you come back from hanging out with him and all of a sudden it’s ‘Liam this’ and ‘Liam that’ and ‘Liam’s biceps’ and ‘Liam’s eyes’. It’s sickening.”

Zayn removes himself from Harry’s side and rolls his eyes. “It’s not—“

“It’s not like that? Please Zayn. You’re in—“

“Don’t say it.”

Harry frowns. “Why? Because it might be true?”

Zayn doesn’t look at Harry. “Because—because I don’t know yet, Harry. It’s—it hasn’t even been that long since I’ve known him. Because I don’t know if I _can_ take it. Because I don’t know if I’m strong enough to admit that, yet.”

Harry takes his hand. “You’ve gotta practice what you preach, Zayn. Even if it hurts, even if it sucks. I don’t know why you guys are fucking around when you could literally just be fucking.”

Zayn cracks a smile. “Dunno, Harry. I just think he’s worth more than that. I’m not going to start something I can’t finish, yeah? I want to be sure before I start saying things or doing things or—I don’t want to be one of those people that leaves when it gets too hard. When I’m sick of worrying, yeah?”

Harry nods. “I get it. But you can’t keep stringing him along, either. I’m sure he feels the same way you do. At least, anyone watching Liam look at you can tell he’s completely fucking into you. I mean, heart eyes and everything.”

“I—“ Zayn cuts himself off with a tired sigh, shaking his head. “He deserves better than me, though. I can barely keep it together most days.”

Harry’s smile is soft, gentle. “Zayn. He’s seen you at your worst and still comes around. I think he’d love to have you at your best, too.”

Zayn thinks about it for a moment, smiles to himself, to the thought of letting Liam see him at his best (when he can find his best, that is). “I guess. But don’t go chatting shit, alright? Just let me figure this out for myself. And anyway, when’s your date?”

“Saturday,” Harry answers, that sugar glaze back in his eyes. “He invited me back to his. He’s going to _cook_ for me.”

Zayn grins. “On Valentine’s Day? It’s really easy to get you to put out, isn’t it?”

Harry shrugs. “Best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. They don’t say that because it isn’t true.” Harry pauses for a moment, running his fingers through his curls. “Besides. If the food turns out to be good, there’s way less obstacles in the way of me getting him into bed. It’s a win-win, really.”

Zayn barks out a laugh. He plucks the cigarette from the back of his ear and lights it up.

“Hey, at least open the door,” Harry chides, standing to pull open the sliding glass door and shut off the A/C so they don’t rack up an impossible bill. (The heat stifles in seconds, and Zayn wonders if the nicotine is worth it.)

He thinks about Liam, about how much Liam has done for him, how much Liam has come to mean to him in the short amount of time he’s known him. There’s no question that Liam is worth it. Worth everything. Worth the worrying, worth the _up all night_ s, worth the _I can’t sleep_ s, worth the midnight walks and the star gazing and the poem writing and the sketches in his notebook.

He’s worth it all.  

(The only question is, is Zayn brave enough to let him know?)

* * *

Sometimes. Sometimes Zayn can’t quite sleep at night. He’s tossing and turning in his bed, rolling around in his sweat soaked sheets from nightmares he can’t shake. He smokes through cigarette after cigarette, doesn’t dare wake Harry with his issues. He just deals with it most nights, but it’s an easy decision to make when he knows Liam’s at the station, when it’s late enough that he can take a walk and show up, crawl into Liam’s sheets and curl up by his side, wake up with the sun shining on his back, Liam’s body radiating a thick warmth that should be uncomfortable.

Zayn can’t help but be anything but comfortable when it comes to Liam.

The first time it happens, Zayn can’t stop shaking, even when it’d been Niall to open the door, give him a bright smile, let him know that Liam was dead asleep after the call they had. Zayn had almost backed out, had almost turned around, but Niall was quick to find Liam for him. He knows that Liam can’t fix him, knows there’s something wrong with the slight dependency he’s developed, but still, he can’t help but be just calm enough to toss a good night over his shoulder at Niall, and follow Liam to his room in the station. Liam doesn’t hesitate; there isn’t any trepidation trembling in his muscles when he unzips Zayn’s hoodie and drops it to the floor, eyeing him carefully when he pops the button of Zayn’s jeans, watching Zayn’s face intently the entire time he shoves them down. Zayn steps out of them and Liam pulls him close, tucks him into bed, Liam gathering his own pillow and blanket; Zayn knows he’s going to sleep on the floor, but he can’t let Liam. Not tonight.

“Stay up here with me,” Zayn says, voice obscured by the whisper; he almost thinks Liam doesn’t hear him, thinks he can get away with taking it back. But Liam looks at him, just for a moment.

“You sure?” he asks, and it’s the first time Zayn’s noticed Liam’s not wearing much other than his underwear, plain black boxer briefs that stand out against his golden skin in the dim light of the room.

Zayn nods, shoving his face into his pillow. “Yeah, please?”

Liam settles, crawls in right next to Zayn, presses close enough to touch, but it’s Zayn who closes the space, burrowing his face in Liam’s throat, sucking in breaths, counting to calm himself down. Liam wraps his arms around Zayn’s skinny waist, pulls him close and counts with him until Zayn falls into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

* * *

“Hey, there’s Liam!”

Zayn’s vision snaps up from his concentrated stare on his sketchbook and he turns in his chair to see where Niall’s pointed; Liam comes into view easily, wearing a soft smile when he sees Zayn. There’s that telltale warmth again, flooding through Zayn and filling him to the brim, to the point where it almost spills over and causes him to reach out for Liam, touch his palm to Liam’s cheek, find out what his lips taste of.

Niall and Harry are sitting opposite of where Zayn is sitting, holding hands atop the table, shameless (as they should be).

(It didn’t take much time for just dinner to escalate and turn into something much more full blown than Zayn had been expecting them. But Niall looks at Harry like there isn’t anything else worth his attention, and Harry looks at Niall like he’s the sun in the sky, and Zayn can’t be bothered by it. He’s maybe a little bit jealous, especially when he’s sitting by Liam and his fingers itch to thread themselves through Liam’s and fuse their palms together. Zayn does a good job of shoving it down and ignoring it.)

“Hey, guys,” Liam says, taking the seat next to Zayn. Liam’s eyes shine with something Zayn thinks to call happiness, and Zayn gives him a smile, almost private in the way he knows his lips curl up, almost unnoticeable. Liam’s gaze lingers too long, maybe, because Harry’s clearing his throat. Liam doesn’t look away and Zayn finds he doesn’t mind the least bit.

“Hi, Liam,” Zayn says finally, suppressing the way he wants to blush and let Liam’s arm curl around his shoulder, lean his head up against the strong column of Liam’s neck.

“Whatcha drawing there?” Curiosity colors Liam’s voice and Zayn moves his arms to show Liam before he can stop himself. He looks away from Liam for a split second to look at Harry; he’s never been one to be so open with his art. Harry’s got a couple of paintings hanging in his room, and from time to time, he does commissions, but his raw sketches, the things in his book; they’re not meant for anyone but himself. He shows Liam anyway.

Liam takes the book from him, and Zayn watches the way a grin conquers the curve of Liam’s lips, how it spreads slow and steady, lighting up his entire face.

It’s nothing but caricatures of Niall and Harry, little bodies and big heads; but Liam isn’t satisfied with the one page. He flickers through the pages and Zayn _lets him_ and Harry reaches over to pinch Zayn’s forearm.

“You never let me look,” he says with a pout, green eyes glittering; they betray the frown.

“Reckon Liam’s special, then,” Niall offers, and Liam looks up at Zayn, like he wants to be something special, and Zayn hates the way he caves in on himself, presses his lips into a long line.

“Something like that,” Zayn concedes, and Liam blinks at him, grin unwavering, eyes vibrant and so, so brown, and Zayn wants to crawl into the strength of his arms, curl into Liam’s side, press himself to the length of Liam’s body. He doesn’t, but god, he wants to, if it’ll keep Liam looking at him like that.

“Something like that,” Liam echoes, and Zayn finds himself grinning, too. Liam gives the book back.

“Hey, I want to see, too,” Niall says, reaching out to intercede and grab the book but Zayn snatches it back.

Harry’s grinning madly, eyes bright with something like hope. “We aren’t that special. Not like our Liam, here,” he says, pressing a kiss to Niall’s hair.

(Zayn doesn’t know when Liam became someone special, when he changed from Liam to _Liam_. Zayn doesn’t know, and he wants to; when someone asks when it happened, when he knew Liam was a _good one_ , he wants to tell them the exact moment he figured it out. It just makes Zayn think, in that moment, that maybe Liam’s always been _Liam._ )

Zayn braces himself for the teasing that’s sure to ensue, considering he doesn’t make any effort at all to deny it.

* * *

The four of them chat for a while, before Niall is whisking Harry away for a movie and dinner, and he’s left with Liam. Since then, Liam’s arm has crawled over his shoulder. Zayn hasn’t relented on his sketching; Liam insists he likes watching, doesn’t mind filling in the silence with stories of his childhood, funnier moments filled with teasing sisters and doting parents.

Zayn draws and Liam holds him close, even after their coffee cups are empty and people trickle in and out of the coffee house and the sun sets.

He’s _comfortable_.

“Come over? Bet the flat is empty with Niall and Harry gone,” Zayn says when there’s a lull in the conversation, when Liam’s fallen silent, content to simply watch Zayn.

When Zayn looks up, Liam’s looking at him with a glint in his eye that he can’t quite name. “Or they lied and they’re in the flat and not expecting us anytime soon.”

Zayn laughs. “You scared of walking in on them? Wouldn’t be the first time, living with Harry. He’s naked, like, all the time.”

Liam smiles fondly, burying his face in Zayn’s hair. Zayn moves just a little closer, seeking out the warmth of Liam’s hold.

“Come over, please?” Zayn asks again. He can use the pretense of watching a movie to fall asleep with Liam at his side, but he knows he doesn’t need a reason anymore. Not really. It’s just a fact that he sleeps best when its Liam’s even breathing to his side.

“Yeah, alright,” Liam agrees.

Zayn looks up at Liam again, gives him a smile of the same private sorts as earlier.

(In his mind, he’ll categorize the feel of his lips as his _Liam smile_. Later, Harry will confirm it for him.)

Collecting his pencil and book, Zayn leads Liam out of the shop. Zayn doesn’t hide the fact that he wants to hold hands as they walk. It should feel different, he should be tentative about showing this kind of affection with someone who isn’t Harry, with someone he hasn’t kissed, with someone he’s more than mildly interested in. They share beds more often than not, it shouldn’t phase him that he wants to hold Liam’s hand, like, all the time.

It’s Liam, though, who takes his hand, fuses their palms and tangles their fingers together. Zayn doesn’t hide the smile that spreads across his face.

“I have a show,” Zayn says gently while they travel down the sidewalk. “I—uh, it’s like an art show, yeah? It’s for the art students, and it’s my second year, so it’s—it happens every year and last year I submitted some paintings. Anyway, I just. Like, maybe you’d want to come?”

“Of course,” Liam says without missing a beat. Liam squeezes his fingers around Zayn’s. They share a look, walking slowly, before Zayn looks away.

“Really?”

“Of course,” he repeats. “I mean. You’re always so secretive about your art. I want to see what you’ve been up to.”

_I could show you_ sits on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back. Maybe later, he thinks. Maybe when they’re not dancing around each other and they’ve started to sleep naked next to each other during the blistering nights of the summer. Maybe when _see you later_ is accompanied by a kiss, and _hello_ is the taste of Liam’s tongue. Maybe later.

“Well, we’ve already established that you’re pretty special. I’ll show you one day, Liam Payne,” Zayn settles for saying, catching the grin Liam tosses him.

“One day sounds good,” Liam murmurs back.

* * *

(It could have happened that night, Zayn thinks. He could have learned the edges of Liam’s body, everything between the ends of his hair and the tips of his toes. He could have leaned forward during _Batman Begins_ and stolen a kiss from the pink of Liam’s lips.

Harry and Niall burst through the door, laughing all too loudly and the courage Zayn’s been building is shattered and Liam isn’t looking at him anymore and Zayn’s never, ever hated Harry, but in that moment, he thinks he could.)

* * *

(That night, goodnight feels like Liam’s fingers on his spine, Liam’s breath on his throat, lips too far away. It feels like hesitance and trepidation and _fear_. It feels like there’s miles of space between them though their legs tangle under the sheets and Zayn’s got his hands on Liam’s chest.

It feels like _not yet_.

It feels like _soon._ )

* * *

It’s an unassuming Tuesday; he knows Liam has the day off, so he isn’t expecting treats from the bakery Harry works at today. Except, Liam is late, and that almost never happens; Zayn’s eyes keep flitting to the clock hung over the customer service desk. It’s hard to keep his eyes off of it when one o’clock is ticking it’s way on to two.

In the middle of shelving paperbacks in the back of the library, he’s interrupted by Niall, smiling gently at him, holding what looks like a bag of what’s supposed to be lunch. Niall holds it out.

“You’re a hard person to get a hold of, you know?” Niall says, leaning against one of the shelves. He’s wearing a tank top and shorts that cut off at the knee, exposing an angry looking scar.

“How do you mean?” Zayn asks, taking the bag from Niall, setting it on top of a stack of books he’s still working on.

Niall smiles. “Liam tried calling a few times to let you know he was called in for some random training; it happens. Nothing to worry about. He asked me to come and bring you lunch since he couldn’t.”

Something cold inside of Zayn warms. Yes, he was a little irritated at Liam for missing their lunch (dates?) get together, and it slipped his mind to check his phone for messages while submerged in his books.

Instead of answering Niall, he pulls his phone from where it sits in the front pocket of his jeans. Sure enough, there are a few missed calls and a couple of texts.

**_Leeyum_ ** **12:46 PM: hey cant make it, calld into wrk**

**_Leeyum_ ** **12:50 PM: z?**

**_Leeyum_ ** **1:11 PM: zayn im sory, niall is gona make up for it. im sory if ur mad**

Zayn can’t help but smile, feel slightly guilty at the fact he’s probably left Liam to think he’s been ignored. He makes a move to turn the vibration to his cell on.

**_Zayn_ ** **1:36 PM: I’m not mad at you. I didn’t have the sound on, sorry. Tomorrow, yeah? x**

**_Leeyum_ ** **1:37 PM: yessss im glad ur not mad**

**_Zayn_ ** **1:37 PM: Could never be mad at you.**

Zayn pockets his phone, looks up at Niall, catching the gaze on his face. There’s a mixture of humor and amusement with awe. He’s not sure what it means.

“So, like, you guys still doing some weird thing where you’re kind of dating while not?” Niall asks, picking at the end of his shirt, grinning like mad.

Zayn makes a face, a grimace, and Niall laughs. “We’re just friends,” Zayn says smoothly. “I mean.” He shrugs, because really, he doesn’t know what they are. They could be dating, Zayn thinks. To an outsider, probably, with the hand holding and sleeping in the same bed, standing too close together and constantly touching one another. They’re already in _something more_ territory; a kiss would seal the deal, really.

They’ve been skirting around each other for weeks; it’s starting to make Zayn anxious, because all Zayn can think about lately is _Liam._

It’s during his sculpting that Liam crowds his mind, with thoughts of his biceps and the stretch of his pink lips when he smiles. It’s during class that he thinks of Liam and his body, his warmth, the strength in his arms when he holds Zayn late at night, when the sun is drowsy but rising. It’s Liam and thoughts of his fingertips skittering over the small of Zayn’s back, over his spine when he’s restless. It’s the kisses he presses into Zayn’s hair that Zayn thinks about when he’s submerged in the passages of the thick books he shelves at the library or the textbooks he’s hunched over as he studies. It’s what Zayn reads, the feeling of unadulterated _want_ when Zayn catches Liam looking at him, the way his cheeks tinge ruddy and his eyes shine like the stars Zayn stares at when he can’t sleep.

It’s everything and so far he’s got nothing to show for all he thinks.

“What about you and Harry? You’ve got him pretty happy, these days,” Zayn says, because if he can shift the focus off of himself, it’ll make for less questions about Liam that he can’t quite answer.

Niall’s eyes light up and his lips pull into a lazy smile. “That Harry. I like him loads, yeah. ‘S not like it’s hard or anything. He’s already likeable. But he’s pretty to look at, laughs at my jokes, doesn’t take a whole lot too seriously.” Niall shrugs, doesn’t look at Zayn, and Zayn smiles because watching people fall for Harry is one of the perks of being his friend. Really, Harry Styles can have someone wrapped around his finger in seconds, it’s that easy. But it’s the people that stick around that are the best. (People like Niall, Zayn knows.)

“That’s Harry for you,” Zayn says easily. He grabs the bag, having yet to look inside. Glancing at the clock, he moves forward to tell Mary he’s taking lunch a little late. “Come on,” he says to Niall. “We’ll go eat in the park and you can tell me all about how _pretty_ Harry is.”

Niall laughs, but he dutifully follows.

* * *

In the park, Niall chats easily, and Zayn finds he likes Niall a hell of a lot. He’s easy going, laughs even when things aren’t particularly funny; his eyes never stop glittering. Plus, there’s the added benefit of his voice, the way his lips curl around the words he says with that Irish lilt of his.

(Zayn wonders if this is what he’s like with Harry; Niall doesn’t _shut up_ about Harry. Not for a second. It’s not annoying, anything but, really. It’s admirable, to see someone so taken with Harry and his antics. And he can see why Harry is just as gone for Niall, too.)

* * *

Louis looks sad, eyes lost from their usual mischievous shimmer, Zayn feels terrible for him.

“Hey, kinda late, yeah?” Louis says to him and Zayn shrugs. Louis steps away from the door and lets Zayn through without a fight.

“Liam never said he minds,” Zayn answers defensively. Louis shakes his head.

“No, no, I _know_ he doesn’t mind, sorry.” Louis looks frustrated, like he hadn’t quite meant to say what he did. “I actually wanted to talk to you, if you’ve got a minute. I don’t ever seem to be able to catch you when you’re around,” Louis says, lips downturned, blue eyes strong with reckless emotion. He looks _sorry._ Zayn is fused with exhaustion, but he stays, lets Louis take him by the wrist and lead him to the kitchen, some sort of guise of privacy.

Louis leans against the island in the middle of the kitchen, hands clasped in front of him. He looks even smaller than he usually does.

Zayn waits for him to start.

He does.

“So, that morning, obviously, I was being a real dick. It’s been a while, but I know I was wrong. Liam said he’d gone to see you and you were sick and when he came back, he wouldn’t talk to me for days. He’s—he can get pretty distant when he’s upset, right? And he told me that you’d told him what I said, and Liam’s right. I had no right to say what I did. It wasn’t my place to say anything the way I did. And I guess I was just bitter. Because I see the way he talks about you, right? Like he looks at you like you’re—like, like I can’t even _describe_ it. But I think you’ve started to make him happy the second you walked in here with your cookies and—and lots of us have people at home. Hell, most of the guys are married with four kids and a house and a fucking dog with a wagging tail. Lots of us have families. But in this line of work, it’s so easy to lose it all.

“And it’s—I almost had that, once. I was with a beautiful woman, lovely girl named Eleanor. Kind of changed my whole world, she did. I would have done anything for her. But what we do is dangerous, and one night I didn’t quite come home. Got caught and burned and had to stay shacked up in a hospital for _weeks_.” Louis lifts his shirt and Zayn’s eyes fall to his chest where the skin is puckered like paper that’s been rained on, raised flesh that’s scarred over, an _accident_ burned into his skin irrevocably. Zayn swallows thickly, can feel his throat close up, but he forces himself to concentrate, to not fall into his anxiety.

“We were set to get married in the summer, and she called it off. Kind of shit of her, yeah, but honestly, she couldn’t handle the fact that it was very real that I might not come home one night. That I’ll be a casualty of a natural disaster. She loves me, I know. That was never the question. But the fact that I could leave her any given day scared the shit out of her. Scared me, too. But—I was trying to protect Liam from that. And I know that wasn’t right of me. He gets to live his life, and he’s happy when you’re around. There’s been a few women,” Louis says with a wave of his hand, a sneer marring his handsome face. “A couple of pretty girls that used to come by, but never really stick around because of the fact they could get their heart broken.

“And I know this is probably the shittiest way to apologize and to explain, but, in any case, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I said those things and kicked you out. He deserves to be happy and you make him happy. I’m not going to stand in the way of that. If you want to make him happy, then go on, be my guest. But—“ Louis’ eyes steel, harden from the sorrowful blue to cold, frozen azure right before him. “But you can’t lead him on and then decide that it’s not good enough for you. You can’t just decide one day that you’re going to leave because _it’s too much_. Because that’s not fair.”

“I _never_ —“ Zayn’s breath is caught in his throat and it almost hurts to talk. “I don’t want to hurt him. I never— _fuck_ , he’s everything, don’t you get that? You don’t think I know what he does? Like, I get it, you guys leave and don’t know if you come back. I _understand_ that. And if I was even thinking of leaving, I would have done it ages ago. But that’s not what this is, yeah? I’m around because I want to be, because, it’s fucking cheesy as hell, but I can’t stand not being around him. I like being with him. And if he wants me around, then I’m going to stick around. He deserves to be happy and, fuck, if I make him happy then I’ll stay as long as he wants me to.”

Louis’ smile flourishes, slow, but steadily sure. It conquers his mouth, and his teeth shine in the dim light of the kitchen. “Alright, then. So. We’re good?”

Zayn sighs, deflates, and feels a _yeah_ flutter through him. “’Course,” he releases, giving Louis a smile of his own. “Yeah, we’re good.”

Louis’ claps his hands together and nods. “Good, that. I’m off to bed. Early morning.” He pats Zayn on his shoulder as he walks away, and offers a small, “Night, Zayn,” before disappearing.

Rooted to place, Zayn doesn’t quite move. Everything happened too quickly for him to process, but he’s walking towards Liam’s room before he knows what he’s doing. Liam’s asleep, snoring softly with his face smashed into his pillow, legs kicked out from underneath the blanket. Zayn smiles at the sight, doesn’t turn the light on as he closes the door behind him, shucks his shoes, peels off his jacket and his jeans, crawls underneath the blanket next to Liam, throws his arm around Liam’s naked waist and closes his eyes.

* * *

(It’s literally the middle of March, how is it blistering outside?)

* * *

**_Leeyum_ ** **9:46 PM: wht r u doing**

(They’ve passed _hello_ s and timid _hey_ s, and it’s still fascinating how Liam is completely incapable of writing complete sentences with punctuation; he used to cringe, but now he’s quite fond of them, really.)

**_Zayn_ ** **9:46 PM: I’m at the studio, finishing my piece.**

**_Leeyum_ ** **9:48 PM: can I see?**

Zayn stares at his the sculpture he’s been crafting for the last two months. It’s done, solid, standing upright. Zayn’s started on the painting now, careful with the cans, precise with his brushes. He can’t let Liam see it just yet, no.

**_Zayn_ ** **9:48 PM: Not yet. At the show. Patience is virtue aha :) x**

Liam doesn’t text back for a while, and Zayn knows he’s busy; it’s the first night of his shift. Zayn’s been braving sleeping alone for a while.

(Not really sleeping; slaving away at art mostly, taking to shredding the walls of the studio with elaborate murals that mean nothing to anyone but himself. He’s been burning through cigarettes like crazy, trying to grow into his itching skin. He’s been jabbing his paintbrushes against canvases, trying to release his frustration with his insomnia; it doesn’t quite work. He’s a walking skeleton most days, bones and skin, conditioned to keep going, even when there isn’t much will left to do so.)

**_Leeyum_ ** **10:54 PM: dont forgt to sleep kay?**

Zayn smiles at his phone, and burns through another cigarette, then another, before typing back.

**_Zayn_ ** **11:09 PM: A bit hard when you’re not around, yeah?**

**_Leeyum_ ** **11:10 PM: try for me x**

Zayn stubs out his cigarette, downs a bottle of water.

**_Zayn_ ** **11:22 PM: Yeah, Liam. I’ll try for you x**

* * *

His dreams are always vivid; it takes him waking up to figure out they weren’t real at all. He doesn’t know what triggers it, why he’s had the same dream for the last however many nights and tonight it’s different.

_He’s staring, rooted to place; no control over his body. This isn’t what usually happens; he knows something is wrong, can feel it prickle over his spine, prodding painfully. His heart is racing in his chest, pounding mercilessly; it’s almost loud enough that he doesn’t hear the incessant roaring of a scream. He looks around the room and in the blink of an eye, flames rise and crackle, destroying everything in its path, much too quick for Zayn to run like he’s supposed to. The screaming, though, keeps his legs from moving. Eyes flickering about the room, he can’t find the source, not immediately._

_He sees Liam, across the room, too far. His legs give then; he_ runs _. It doesn’t seem to matter how fast—he doesn’t get any closer to Liam, even as he watches the flames shroud Liam from his vision; the smoke burns his eyes and he’s rubbing them with his hands—it just makes it worse. But he doesn’t stop running, can’t stop running, he has to keep—_

Zayn wakes with a start, clambering for breath; his chest feels hollow and his heart is pounding out a rhythm that forges a headache to bloom from the back of his head to his temples. He’s sitting on the cot, blanket tangled around his ankles, shirt sticking to him from the sweat.

He counts, God knows how long for. He counts until he reaches impossible numbers, until the panic subdues, until his heart rate is manageable, until he isn’t gasping for breath and the dizziness relinquishes.

He searches the sheets for his phone, finding it where he’d shoved it underneath his pillow.

4:16 AM; the time glares at him menacingly, and Zayn drops against the cot, only to sit back up, stand, search for his cigarettes.

Hands shaking, he lights one, pulling a harsh drag that leaves him with the urge to cough. Fuck, it’s never been this bad; it’s been tolerable, his nightmares, something he can shake off when he wakes, even when his bed is empty, save for his own limbs.

He dials Liam before he can comprehend what he’s doing. He listens to the rings. Counts them. _One. Two. Thre—_

“Zayn?” Liam’s voice is thick with slumber, and Zayn feels like shit for fucking things up for him, for whimpering into the phone like he’s pathetic. That’s what this is; he’s utterly pathetic.

He lets out a breath, can’t seem to let his mouth curl around words to tell Liam he’s fine. He just—well, he breaks. It’s been a long time coming, really, nights and days of pent up anxiety.

“Zayn,” Liam says again, but it’s soft, sounds a hell of a lot like _It’s okay, I’m here_. “Zayn, babe, it’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

Zayn sighs, pulls another drag from his cigarette, smoke filling his lungs. He exhales through his nose, shoves his phone between his ear and his shoulder to run a trembling hand through his hair. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“Shh,” Liam whispers. “Nothing to be sorry for.”

_Plenty to be sorry for_ , Zayn thinks honestly. He says instead, “I tried to sleep. I tried for you.”

Liam is silent for a moment. “Another nightmare?”

“They don’t ever _stop_ , is the thing. It’s the same every night. I’m there, in that fucking room, and I can’t get out and you’re there and—but now, tonight, I don’t—you, _you_ —“ Zayn chokes on his words, struggles to keep himself when all he wants is to crawl into the ground and disappear from it all. “I couldn’t get to you. And—God, you were screaming and I was _running_ and I couldn’t—“

“Zayn, _Zayn_ , it’s okay. I’m okay. I’m right here, I’m _fine_ ,” Liam consoles and it soothes the surface, gives him a moment to gather himself, pull every drag from the cigarette he’s been smoking before snuffing it out in a can of redbull.

“And I keep bothering you—“

He can almost hear the curl of Liam’s smile; it makes his heart stutter in his chest, in a _good_ way for once. “You’re not bothering me, Zayn. How could you think that?”

Zayn huffs out a humorless laugh. “Probably the fact that it’s four thirty in the morning and you’ve got to be up at some unholy hour to save lives.”

Liam chuckles, sleep still embedded in his voice. He sounds like warmth and peace and _home_ and Zayn almost hates the way he thinks it so easily. “It’s _fine_ , Zayn. I swear. Should I be expecting you soon, or do I have to go over there and drag you here?”

The invitation is just that; _inviting_. And Zayn wants to, he does, but something keeps him from saying, _I’m on my way._ “Leeyum,” Zayn sighs. “I _shouldn’t_.”

Liam sighs back at him. “You should. It’s late—early. Don’t torture yourself. I’ll feel better if you were here, anyway,” he drawls, a yawn punctuating his speech. “Please, Zayn?”

And how can he say no to that? (He can’t, really, and it’s purely for selfish reasons that he’s got his jeans on and is pulling on his shoes before he relents.) Zayn says, “I’ll be there in ten-ish.”

* * *

(Liam does meet him halfway, much to Zayn’s dismay. But. But, God, Liam holds his hand the entire five minute walk back, like it’s normal, like it’s a thing, and there’s hope that sparks in his chest when he sees Liam in a hoodie with the station’s emblem over his heart, his hair messy and his face soft from sleep. His eyes, though, brown as ever, sparkling, even in the dim light of the lampposts.

In Liam’s bed, Zayn doesn’t hesitate to curl around his body. He wonders, belatedly, if Liam can get in trouble for this, for sneaking Zayn in—but he doesn’t let that thought run too far, not when Liam’s legs tangle with his and Liam’s fingers rub soothing lines at the base of his spine.

“Goodnight, Zayn,” Liam whispers into his hair.

If Zayn was brave, he’d reach up and sneak a sleepy kiss from Liam’s lips.

Being brave is something Zayn’s never really conquered.

Zayn settles instead for, “Goodnight, Li.”)

* * *

“Zayn, would you stay a moment, please?”

He’s just finished packing his brushes, his eyes finding his professor standing at the front of the room. “Uh, yeah, sure.”

Professor Diaz stands at the front of the classroom, her short stature lost with height of her heels and the way her face conveys strong expressions. She’s comely, like the way a mother is, long dark hair hanging wavy over one shoulder, skin darker than his own, eyes like black coffee he drinks in the morning. She’s wicked smart, an amazing artist; she’d have to be, criticizing a classroom full of pupils hoping to be just as talented as she is.

“I wanted to go over the photos you submitted—for your piece?” Professor Diaz starts. She’s smiling at him, soft curve of ruby red lips. She stands with her hands clasped behind her back, regarding Zayn with kind eyes.

“Oh—I … I dunno. Did you—do you like them?” Zayn asks. He rubs the palm of his hand over the nape of his neck—a mannerism he, no doubt, picked up from Liam—and looks down that floor.

“I love them, actually.” She laughs, stepping forward. When he looks up, Zayn can see the reverence in her eyes, like he doesn’t know all the good he’s capable of. “I didn’t know you were doing a sculpture. I’d pegged you for a painter, but I’m surprised—in a good way, mind you.”

“Oh. Oh, that’s good then.”

Professor Diaz sets a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It’s hard, I know, Zayn. But you’re good at what you do. It’s not every day I come across an artist with the kind of—vision you have. It’s—I can’t wait to see it, quite honestly. I’m excited.”

There’s a fluttering in his stomach, because he’s nervous, because no one’s ever regarded his art the way she does. She takes him seriously, and he’s not sure what to do with that.

“I—wow,” he says, and he’s a little speechless, because he’s _seen_ the kinds of things his professor can lay on a canvas. He’s seen the kinds of sculptures she can beat out of clay. It’s a wonder she’s teaching a class at all with the way her mind works.

“I know I almost forced you into the showing, but I’m not regretting it at all. And you know—it’s a good thing for you, Zayn. People seeing your art, letting them in. It’s scary as all hell, but—but it’s liberating, too. And with your piece …” she trails off, retracts her hand from Zayn’s shoulder and covers that hand over her heart. “It’ll make people feel things. Good things. Exhilarating emotions. The things you do with brushes and clay, Zayn—it could make people want to fall in love.”

Zayn grins, feeling light on his feet, liberated from all the time he’s spent working on his piece, slathered in worry. She’s the only person that’s seen it, granted only the glimpses in photographs, but she knows.

“Anyway,” she continues, “I’ve reserved a spot in the back for you. It’ll leave people thinking about it all night, even when they’re home tending to lovers and families and daily life, they’ll be thinking of your art Zayn. It has that kind of impact. I hope you know that I believe you’ll go very far with your talent.”

“Thank you, Professor,” he says, because what kinds of things do you say to compliments like those.

She gives him a smile and says, “You’re welcome. Now off you go.”

He smiles at her and turns to leave.

* * *

It’s one of Liam’s days off, and Zayn’s fresh out of class, Professor Diaz’s words weighing down his skull like sunlight on his skin. It feels good. He feels good.

**_Zayn_ ** **3:16 PM: Hey, are you busy?**

Liam’s response is fast; Zayn reads over his response as he navigates towards the coffee shop. There’s an odd sensation of happiness bubbling up inside of him. It’s foreign and weird, and Zayn doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

**_Leeyum_ ** **3:17 PM: whts up????**

**_Zayn_ ** **3:17 PM: I’m getting coffee, could you come meet me? I’ve got some energy to burn.**

* * *

Liam, as always, looks spectacular in his street clothes; Zayn wonders idly how he’s not mobbed by men and women on a daily basis when his chest stretches the cotton fabric of his white tshirt so deliciously.

Zayn finds Liam coming through the door before Liam can set his eyes on Zayn. He looks good, and Zayn has to stomp that particular emotion down inside of him as Liam catches his gaze, smiles so his eyes crinkle at the sides.

“Hey, how was class?” Liam asks, taking the seat in front of Zayn, setting his hands on the table.

Zayn shrugs. “It was class. Got some good feedback from my professor on some art, so I’m a little giddy I guess. I didn’t think what I’m putting in the show would be as good as she thinks she is.”

Liam’s smile brightens, and God, that’s the best thing about Liam, Zayn thinks, how he wears his emotions on his face, like he’s genuinely happy for Zayn, like he honestly cares about the things Zayn talks about.

“I’m sure whatever you’re working on is going to be great, Zayn,” he says easily, giving Zayn that private smile he’s come to love.

“Yeah, I mean—I’ve only been working on it for months. But—I thought we could do something? Like—there’s this place.” Zayn takes a drink of his coffee and sets the cup down on the table.

“A place," Liam echoes.

Zayn grins. “How do you feel about trampolines?”

* * *

_Sky Zone_ is made up completely of geometric shapes of trampolines.

Zayn and Liam pay their entrance fees and Liam looks slightly skeptical, about half a million children bouncing around him. Zayn suppresses a giggle and reaches behind him to grab Liam’s hand and tug him to an unoccupied square—and starts jumping.

Liam follows him on, flinging himself in the air when Zayn’s feet touching the bed. They aren’t talking—there’s no room for it when the two of them are just looking at each other, laughing until it almost hurts. And for Zayn, it’s been almost too long since he’s felt like this, brave and light, like he’s shaking off fears and doubts, just by listening to the lovely warmth of Liam’s laugh. It’s childish—but there has to be space in his life for him to succumb to this feeling, to let himself to feel free for a little while. To laugh for the sake of it, to be happy. And he’s happy here. It’s momentary, possibly fleeting, but he doesn’t worry about it, not when his skin is buzzing with a feeling that seldom comes to him.

“You know,” Liam says, slightly out of breath, words broken up by the force of his jumps, “When you said—you had—energy to burn—I didn’t think—this was what—you were thinking.” His smile is wide, and it sparkles like sunlight reflecting off of the ocean.

“Well,” Zayn responds, “I wanted—to do—something fun, like.”

Liam just grins, jumps high and comes back down, and then soars up high again. He lands and stays put on the bed of the trampoline, walking backwards to stand of the safety pad. Zayn can feel his eyes on him. “I haven’t done this in, like, _years_ ,” he says.

“Don’t tell me—you’re done already,” Zayn crows, a grin teasing his lips. “We still have three--quarters of an—hour left.”

Liam shakes his head, regarding Zayn with a careful look. Zayn can’t quite place the emotion that flashes so vibrant in those brown eyes he loves so much. “I like watching you. You look happy.”

Zayn doesn’t say anything for a moment, just jumps and stares at Liam, because he can’t quite figure Liam out. “I am.”

“You are?”

Zayn lands, wobbles a little as he walks over to Liam, tripping slightly but Liam catches him. Liam’s hands are stable on his forearms, and there’s a smile teasing Liam’s lips and this moment, like so many others, makes Zayn want to lean forward and kiss him silly. “Right now,” Zayn speaks, tongue darting out to wet his lips, “right now, I’m happy, Liam.”

“Alright, then.” There’s a pause, and then, “Come on, Z. Can’t have you out jumping me.”

Zayn throws his head back and laughs and Liam chuckles, pulling him into the center of the trampoline bed, letting go of Zayn’s forearms to catapult himself into the air. And Zayn just stands there, a little mesmerized by him that Zayn doesn’t jump up like he’s supposed to. So when Liam lands, it shifts Zayn’s balance and Zayn’s falling forward, catching his hands onto Liam’s white tshirt and pulling Liam down with him.

Zayn’s laughing softly; Liam’s flat on his back and Zayn’s flush against his chest. Liam’s eyes are wide, glittering, and he’s kind of beautiful in the middle of all the noise and heavy breathing and Zayn could just lean down, could just touch his lips to Liam’s and be done with it. He could it would be so easy with the way Liam doesn’t let him go, doesn’t push him off.

“ _Leeyum,_ ” Zayn says, because he wants to, because, God, he has to.

Liam’s eyes dart down to Zayn’s lips and there’s something sizzling in his blood and—

“Hey, if you’re on the trampolines, you need to be standing,” a woman says.

The moment is broken and Zayn slides off of Liam, quick to bounce to his feet. He looks at the owner of the voice that had interrupted them, and finds a petite blonde, her face contorted with boredom and apathy.

“And, you know,” she says, “there are kids around.”

Liam rolls his eyes, but he’s standing, too, and the lady walks away. Liam looks at Zayn and Zayn stares right back before dissolving into giggles.

By the end of their hour, Zayn’s thighs are aching and his stomach hurts with the pain of a good workout—and Liam’s holding his hand.

(He almost hates the way the feeling crawls up his back, settles onto his shoulders, makes a home there. It’s this unbridled warmth that he almost can’t handle, but loves so much.)

“Walk you home?” Liam says when they’re outside.

Zayn grins. “Stay the night?”

Liam licks his lips, nods his head. “Yeah, ‘course. Still happy, though, right?”

Zayn thinks for a moment, can still feel the bubbling of that foreign emotion underneath his skin. He looks up at Liam, blinks a few times. “Yeah. Yeah, still happy.”

* * *

When Zayn wakes, it’s to Harry opening the door to his bedroom. He sits up and rubs his eyes, trying to blink the sleep away. He could just burrow underneath the blankets, but the clock on the bedside table says it’s well past noon.

“Was that Liam leaving this morning?” Harry says with a cheeky grin.

Zayn shrugs. “He stayed last night. Had a shift this morning, though.”

Harry walks into the room, falls onto Zayn’s bed. “Anything … worth mentioning happen?”

For a moment, he just looks at Harry, hates that he has to shakes his head. “Nope. Still, you know. Doing what we do, I guess.”

“And what exactly is it that you do?” Harry asks. He picks at a thread in Zayn’s duvet, not quite looking up at Zayn.

“Dunno. We sleep in the same bed, and text each other, hold hands—proper fucking couple shit, you know? Without the kissing and the fucking, I s’pose. ‘S whatever.”

Harry frowns. “Don’t you ever just want to like, kiss him goodbye in the morning? Or like, fuck him goodnight?”

Zayn laughs despite the sinking feeling in his stomach. “’Course, babe. But like—dunno. Just waiting, I guess.”

“For?” Harry presses.

Zayn shrugs, stretches his arms over his head and scratches his bare belly. “Fuck if I know. It’ll happen if it’s—you know. Whatever. If it’s what Liam wants.”

Silence blankets the room for a moment. “Why don’t you just ask him?”

Sighing, Zayn gets out of bed and grabs for his towel. “Fuck if I know, Harry.”

Harry grumbles from the bed, but Zayn leaves him to head for the shower. As he brushes his teeth, he catches his reflection in the mirror; why doesn’t he just ask Liam?

* * *

It’s during one for Liam’s days off in April that it kind of sort of falls into place.

* * *

Liam drives, and it shouldn’t be as sexy as it is, but Zayn can’t help but watch Liam’s hand over the gear shift as they drive to nowhere in particular.

It’s late at night; the stars twinkle over their heads, the sun having sunk below the horizon long ago. It’s the middle of spring but the air is sweltering, a heat that’s welcomed with open arms. Zayn keeps the window down, lets the air blast over his face as they’re on their way. The radio plays songs about love, sex, and drugs, nothing that strikes Zayn deep, but he can feel it, the twang of a guitar skate over his skin, can feel the words the artist croons tug at the strings of his heart. His fingertips trace up Liam’s forearm as he shifts gear, muscles flexing. He touches invisible lines up and down, hums the songs he knows, ignores the ones he doesn’t.

Liam parks in the parking lot of a grocery store that’s closed for the night. There’s nothing around, not really. No one around. It’s odd; he doesn’t know why Liam’s picked here to stop, but Liam’s getting out and Zayn follows.

He watches as Liam hops up on the hood of the car, and beckons Zayn to do the same, so he does. Lying against the windshield, he looks up at the stars, where they shine for him, for him and Liam.

“What are we doing here?”

Liam doesn’t quite answer, not really. But he takes Zayn’s hand, knots their fingers and clutches.

“Don’t know. I mean, just didn’t want to drive anymore,” Liam says to him, words coming out like a whisper that caress his skin. Zayn turns to look at Liam, his eyes a deep warm brown, lips curled up into a gentle smile, like a secret, like it’s just for Zayn.

“Okay,” Zayn answers simply, because that’s enough for him, to lay on the hood of a car and hold Liam’s hand.

There’s a moment, a long break of silence that _could_ allow Zayn to drift into a comfortable sleep, but then Liam’s sliding off, pulling him along and they’re standing in the middle of the parking lot and Liam is looking at him like—

He doesn’t quite know how to categorize the intensity of Liam’s gaze, the way his vision borrows Zayn’s with ease, heavy and purposeful. It’s like Liam wants to say a million things all at once, but all Liam does is pull him close, crowd Zayn up against his chest. They’re toe to toe, chest to chest, noses almost touching and God, Liam’s lips are _right there_ , a breath away and Zayn could just take, he could. But he doesn’t.

“Dance with me,” Liam says.

Zayn thinks he’s ruined the moment when he barks a laugh, but Liam just smiles at him, big and crinkly eyed, and Zayn has never kissed this man, hasn’t touched him like a lover would, but he’s damn sure he’s in striking, white hot love with him in the purest sense.

“There’s no music,” Zayn goes on to say, pointing out the startlingly obvious.

Liam doesn’t answer him, only moves to string his arm around Zayn’s waist, taking Zayn’s hand in his. Zayn sets his hand on Liam’s shoulder, licks his lips and lets Liam lead them in a waltz that spins around the empty asphalt of the parking lot. Zayn can think of a few songs he wouldn’t mind hearing now, something about falling head first into love, about stars aligning, chemicals reacting. Zayn thinks about how they met properly while Liam spins him around, thinks of how Liam is there, always there, picking him up, piecing him back together when he can’t do it himself. It’s like there’s a dam in his chest, destroyed and everything is rushing in, every feeling he’s ever felt for Liam drowning him. It’s scary, frightening, downright terrifying.

And right now, there isn’t a single place he wants to be.

They’re dancing without music—

Liam’s hand skips underneath his shirt to press his fingers into flesh—

Zayn blinks owlishly up at Liam—

Liam’s kiss is gentle, almost unsure, and when he tries to pull back, Zayn just drags him back, stopping them in their tracks just so he can wind his arms around Liam’s shoulders.

(This; this is what he’s been waiting for.)

It’s soft, so soft, like months and weeks and days and hours of unsaid words pressed right against his mouth. He can taste it, all of their nights stayed up late speaking about family and friends and ambitions and dreams and fears. He can taste it when Liam’s tongue peeks from his lips to swipe against Zayn’s own lips, asking for it, and Zayn is nothing but willing to give in.

Liam drags him close, pressed hard against each other, his big hands drifting up underneath Zayn’s t-shirt to press fingertips along his spine like unspoken promises. Zayn licks into Liam’s mouth, tongues slicking alongside each other and he can’t do anything but intensify it, run his fingers through Liam’s hair and hold him close because he doesn’t want it to end. Could never want this to end when Liam is kissing him like he’s got an eternity’s worth of time.

It’s nose bumping, teeth clinking, hands grasping; it’s part asphyxia, giving up his breath for the taste of Liam’s tongue in his mouth, relinquishing every guard, every barrier to get closer.

He’d never thought he’d feel this way, never thought it would electrify him, that he’d feel it burning in his heart, in his veins, warm and real and bright; it’s silly, but this is what he reads about, right? The feeling of infinity dancing on Liam’s tongue; he can taste it and it’s all he wants. Everything he’s ever wanted.

(He takes a long moment, a rush of need inside of him to tip Liam’s head back and let himself fit his mouth over the splotchy birthmark on Liam’s throat. He tastes like summer and sweat and _Liam_ ; nothing’s ever tasted better.)

Zayn is the one to break the kiss, panting like he can’t take in enough air. He looks at Liam, eyes drawing over his knit eyebrows, over his shining eyes, the way his cheeks are colored a deep rose, and his lips glisten pink.

“Take me home, yeah?” Zayn says finally.

The look of alarm on Liam’s face is priceless. “I—too much? I didn’t—I thought I was reading this right—“

Zayn laughs, a breathy noise that gives out into a smile. “You were. I meant—I meant _your_ home.” Zayn hopes there’s the implication of wanting to be alone, without flat mates and distractions. “I’ve never been, you know.”

“Oh,” Liam says, and Zayn watches his eyes shade darker, shine brighter, and the grasp around Zayn’s waist tightens.

“Yeah,” Zayn answers, pulling away from Liam’s hold and rounding him to reach for the passenger side door of the car.

* * *

They’ve spent so much time at the station, so much time in Zayn’s flat, locked away in his bedroom where the only company they have is the cool breeze that peeks through the window while they waste the nights away drinking each other in, sharing words like Zayn had wanted once upon a time; Liam owns a house. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but it does when Liam drives up, parks his car in the driveway and invites Zayn inside.

But Liam owns a house, a nice two story home. He lives alone, not even a pet to keep him company. It’s sad, Zayn thinks, how guarded he’s been up until now, how simply solitary the life Liam leads is.

“Come on,” Liam beckons, taking his hand and leading him up the steps of the front porch.

Zayn follows, Liam pushing the door open and looking behind him to check that Zayn’s still subsequent behind him. Zayn pauses for a moment to take everything in (and to copy the way Liam kicks off his shoes by the door). It’s neat, everything where it should be. There’s a couple of couches, a television, shelves of DVDs and a couple of stacks of books not organized in anyway Zayn can recognize. There are, however, photos _everywhere_. Frames on the walls, on the coffee table, on the end tables. They’re of faces he recognizes, Liam’s sisters, his parents. They’re of faces he’s never seen, extended family, Zayn imagines. Friends. There’s some of Liam as a child, as a baby, as a teenager when he was all skin and bones. It feels like a home, just as much as Zayn and Harry’s flat.

Liam lets him wander, never straying too far; it’s like now that he’s gotten a taste, he’s attuned to Liam, where he is in the room, how close he is.

“Do you want something to drink maybe? Are you hungry?” Liam’s voice comes, breaking the tranquil silence.

Zayn could say yes; it’s been hours since they’ve eaten, but he declines. The feeling sitting low in his stomach has been simmering all night and all he wants to do is kiss Liam again, let Liam run his mouth over his body, over every part he can reach and follow it up with the rough callouses of his fingertips. He wants everything with Liam, underneath the blankets of his bed, wants the promises whispered into his skin, wants to feel Liam against him, on him, inside of him.

“No, I’m okay,” Zayn says at last, turning around where he stands in the middle of the living room to face Liam. He reaches his hands out, bunches his fingers in the fabric of the flannel shirt Liam wears.

Liam brings him in close, crowds into his space, presses a kiss to his lips again, because he can now, because it’s a thing they do, and it feels like his heart is fleeing from his body. He drinks Liam in, opens up to him, lets his tongue slide in, lick up against the roof of his mouth and Zayn lets a groan escape from low in his chest. Pressed tightly together, Zayn allows Liam to strip him of the shirt he’s wearing, touch along the angles of his shoulders, the clavicles, and the flesh of his chest. Liam drops his kisses to the base of Zayn’s throat, and Zayn lets his head fall back to invite Liam in, let him mark up the skin over his neck. Zayn tugs at Liam’s shirt, drags it over him after breaking their kiss.

It’s easy now, easy for him to follow Liam to his bedroom, hands clasped together as he steps up the stairs, past more framed photographs hung on the walls of the hallway.

Liam’s room is just as neat as the rest of the house, but Zayn doesn’t stop to admire it much. Liam doesn’t turn the light on from the switch by the door; he opts instead for the small lamp on the bedside table. A dim yellow light floods the room, just enough to see; it’s intimate.

He loses himself in Liam, in Liam’s big hands and the way his legs cage Zayn’s body underneath him when they lie on the bed. Zayn feels like he can’t breathe but it’s in a way that’s enchanting, that makes his blood sear and his heart beat at quick, questionable speeds. He feels like he could burn alive when Liam touches him, undresses him, kisses him through it all. Zayn could melt into nothing and be okay if it meant Liam would never stop touching him like this.

It’s not like he hasn’t done this before; he’s by no means innocent, not in the slightest bit, but Liam erases all of it, and it’s like it’s brand new with the way Liam takes his time, the way his body drapes over Zayn’s, careful and tentative at times, but desperate and covetous at the same time.

(It doesn’t feel like they’re going to fuck.

At this point, it’s the simple choice of words that Zayn’s brain is muddling through; having sex, fucking, _making love_ ; it makes him feel stupid, but he can’t undermine the emotions that rattle through him, the way Liam looks down at him like he _can’t believe._ )

Liam’s lips suck marks into his neck, over his chest, to the right of his belly button, and Zayn watches with rapt fascination, how Liam can take so much care with his body, how Liam can make him feel this alive.

He’s resorted to breathy sighs, small whimpers and moans when Liam is low enough, parting the button of his jeans with deft fingers and sliding down the zipper. It’s loud in a room shrouded with their heavy breathing. Zayn flickers his eyes down and catches Liam’s, the way they bleed with love and adoration; Zayn can’t ever wonder, not really.

Liam frees Zayn’s legs from the confines of his jeans before doing the same to himself, drops them over the edge of his bed. Zayn takes a moment to look at Liam, really look at him in a way he hasn’t quite allowed himself to. He’s built, nights and days of working out apparent in the strong construct of his shoulders, the way his biceps flex when he moves, how his chest is solid and defined. There’s a dusting of hair that leads from the middle of his chest down his stomach, over the defined grooves of muscles and over his belly button, lowering until the stripe of hair disappears into the boxer briefs he's left wearing. Liam is a masterpiece, Zayn thinks, the kind that could inspire centuries of art, paintings and sculptures, sketches and murals. He’s beautiful, Zayn knows, looking at him is obvious. But Zayn knows everything underneath that, too, his heart and soul and thoughts and broken sentences and the sound of his laugh and the way his eyes shine to bright it could blind Zayn on any given day.

They’re sat there, in the middle of Liam’s made bed, staring at each other, and Liam cracks a smile, slinking back up Zayn’s body. Elbows on either side of Zayn’s head, Liam leans down to catch Zayn’s lips in a kiss, and Zayn sighs, scrapes his fingers along the sides of Liam’s body, holds him close. They’re just shy of naked and Zayn is still having trouble wrapping his head around it, like it’s a fucking mystery he can’t understand. And maybe he doesn’t have to understand it. Maybe he doesn’t have to get this. It’s tangible, touchable, and Liam kisses like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do and Zayn is quite alright with that.

“You’re beautiful, you know,” Liam says in a breath, chuckling softly when Zayn whines.

“’M not,” Zayn says, though it’s useless.

“You’re crazy, is what you are. You’re amazing,” Liam amends, and their bodies collide, hips brushing as Liam buries his mouth against Zayn’s shoulder, sucking at the ink, leaving his own spotted design in the way of tiny red marks that will hurt when Zayn presses his fingers into them in the morning.

Zayn’s legs fall open, bring Liam against him so they align, so when Liam presses his hips down in Zayn’s it winds him; Liam’s hard, God, so hard, and Zayn’s just as fucked, leaking against his boxers; he can’t remember a single time he’s ever felt this kind of desire to be fucked into, to be pressed down and held, to be thoroughly touched the way Liam is doing. Liam’s hips drag slowly against his and there’s the shift of the fabric of their underwear, the way their cocks rub insistently against each other. Zayn gasps into the stillness of the room, chokes out a breath. His fingers grasp at Liam’s back and Liam works fervently against him, echoing his own name back, like it’s an answer—no, like it’s an _absolution_.

“Leeyum,” Zayn exhales, pulling Liam’s mouth against his own, but not before whispering, “I really need you to fuck me now,” against the pale pink of his wrecked lips.

There’s a moment where Liam stares at him, down at him from where he hovers above Zayn’s body. “Really?”

Zayn coughs out a laugh, nodding. “What’d you think was going to happen here?”

Liam turns red, the tips of his ears a pretty pink. “Dunno. Just some fooling around, I guess. I haven’t even gotten to blow you yet.” Liam has the audacity to pout.

Zayn shakes his head, cups his hands over Liam’s cheeks. “You can do that while you open me up. Honestly, Liam. I just—I really need you right now.”

Liam stares at him (like he _can’t believe_ ) again, but it last a second long, and then he’s reaching over Zayn’s body, into the first drawer of the nightstand for a telltale bottle and a condom.

Clothes gone; Liam takes his time with Zayn’s body, is careful with him. And he gets it, Zayn knows Liam doesn’t want to hurt him, but it doesn’t hurt at all when Liam slicks up his fingers, the cap of the lube snapping open loud in the room. Liam starts with one finger, circles Zayn’s hole like he’s teasing, but then he’s dipping inside, pressing in and Zayn’s breath hitches.

Zayn watches Liam’s awestruck features, the way his face conveys concentration, determination, and Zayn’s breathless from it all. Liam nudges Zayn’s legs further apart, leans forward. He borrows Zayn’s vision, eyes steady as he lowers his mouth over Zayn’s cock, hard and leaking against his stomach. Liam’s mouth is warm, wet; he breathes hot over the head before taking it between his lips, tongue pressing against the underside and Zayn’s head tips back, breaking eye contact to let out a strangled noise, a chant of Liam’s name over and over again.

When Liam adds a second finger, he builds a rhythm, not as much teasing as it is giving into Zayn and his pleas, stretching him open, widening him up as he sucks Zayn down, keeping him teetering on the edge when all Zayn wants to do is fall off. Liam stretches him with a third finger and there’s the burn, the slight shred of pain in the midst of all the pleasure that trickles through his bloodstream. It’s beautiful though, the way Liam takes good care of him; distracts him from the burn with the wet slide of his mouth on his cock.

There’s a shift of Liam’s fingers, just a slight brush that has Zayn bucking his hips and keening, fingers grabbing the bed sheets for something to grab onto, before making their way through Liam’s hair. Zayn doesn’t think about the people before, how much practice Liam’s had to perfect his technique, but he’s thankful for it, for the way Liam’s hand grips his hip, a bruising grasp while fingers still work him open. Zayn’s cock drops from Liam’s mouth, a wet slap against his stomach. Liam looks absolutely wrecked, debauched, _sexy_ , and Zayn is whining for him, whimpering.

“Please, _Leeyum_ , I’m ready now,” he says through gritted teeth, fingers scrabbling against the slope of Liam’s shoulders. Liam complies without a word, ripping open the condom wrapper and Zayn watches with voracious eyes as he slips it down the shaft of his cock, hard and leaking and pink. Zayn eyes the way Liam slicks himself, strokes slowly, his hand a loose grip over his cock; Zayn’s eyes snap up to Liam’s. He takes it all in, the posture, the way Liam is kneeling in front of him, just about getting himself off. It’s something Zayn’s never seen before, but he wants to see it again, over and over, especially if Liam’s looking at him _that way_ , with eyes blown with lust and adoration and infatuation and something a lot heavier.

Liam crawls over him, cock bobbing between his legs almost obscenely. Zayn wraps his fingers around the length of him when Liam makes a home between Zayn’s legs, pressed in close. It’s Zayn that guides him and then Liam is pressing in, a slow drag that feels more like agony. Zayn’s holding his breath, staring up at Liam’s face, watching Liam watch him. It takes several moments, the slow push of Liam’s hips until he’s flush against Zayn’s bottom, the backs of Zayn’s thighs flush against Liam’s cut hips; it’s a lot, so much at once, and it’s been so long, but it’s amazing, enough for Zayn to see stars when he closes his eyes and Liam shifts his hips just slightly.

“Look at me,” Liam says, voice rough, hoarse, and Zayn’s eyes snap open, does as Liam asks. It’s stifling; it’s hot everywhere they touch, Liam’s body pure heat against him. It’s almost too much, looking Liam right in the eyes while he shifts his hips back and presses back in. Zayn groans, trembles; Liam’s arms cradle him, and they’re pressed together; he’s almost sure he can feel the drumming of Liam’s heart against his own chest.

Zayn’s legs tighten around Liam’s hips, low, bringing Liam in still, keeping him there. There’s emotion caught in Zayn’s throat and he’s pushing back against Liam, wanting to feel the drag of his cock inside of him, stretching him, filling him up. There’s a steady rhythm built, but it’s achingly slow, like it’s meant to go on for hours instead of the minutes Zayn was convinced he’d last. Liam is making this so good for him, better than he’d imagined in the morning showers he took when he woke up hard next to Liam, or in the sheets of his bed alone at night, when all that could comfort him was the memory of Liam’s body pressed against him as he works his hand over himself, the letters of Liam’s name spilling from Zayn’s lips in a desperate whisper.

Now; now, Liam drags his hips against Zayn’s, leans down for a kiss, but really, it’s just the two of them panting against each other’s mouths, strings of nonsensical words dripping from lips, soft echoes of names reverberating off of the walls. There’s Zayn’s plea for Liam to fuck him harder, to fuck into him good, so good, and Zayn can hear the knocking of the wooden headboard against the wall of Liam’s bedroom, the thumping mixing with the sounds of their breathing, the grunting that vibrates from Liam’s chest. The slide of Liam’s contracting stomach over his cock is electric, sends shocks running through his veins. It’s beautiful, Zayn thinks, that he can feel so much, like that dam is bursting again inside of him. This is what Liam is, everything all at once and it amazes him, how good he can feel in his arms, with him inside of him, fucking deep inside of him, like it’s the only home he’ll ever know.  

“God, Zayn,” Liam whispers against the column of his throat, “you’re so beautiful.”

And Zayn believes it, fuck he does, when it’s whispered with such reverence; Zayn’s fingers grapple, search for purchase along the strong length of Liam’s back, trying to hold onto him. The coiling is low in his stomach, and he’s working his hips up every time Liam fucks down into him, brushes against a place inside of Zayn that has him gasping out loudly— _there, Leeyum, God, please don’t stop_ —and it’s like Liam _knows_ , by the language his body speaks, to reach between them and stroke Zayn until he comes wet over Liam’s thick fingers, toes curling, back arching, eyes close shut, as Liam fucks him thoroughly, working out every last aftershock until he drops heavy against the sweat soaked sheets. Liam comes seconds after; Zayn’s hands are on his face, keeping his gaze through the entirety of it while Liam empties deep inside of him, face conveying everything they could never say through words. He collapses on Zayn’s body, doesn’t care much for the mess they’ve made when it feels so good to be this close to each other.

The room is filled with their deep breaths, like there isn’t enough oxygen to keep them breathing. Zayn cards his fingers through Liam’s sweaty hair, smoothing it away from where it’s matted against his forehead. Liam presses feather light kisses against Zayn’s shoulder, over the myriad of tattoos inked deep in his skin.

“God, why did we wait so long for that to happen?” Liam’s voice comes, drenched with the aftertaste of great sex, and Zayn laughs, sleepiness clouding his voice when he answers back.

“Bunch of idiots, we are,” he murmurs, smiling brightly.

“But finally,” Liam says, the backs of his fingers running smooth against Zayn’s face.

_Yeah, finally_ , Zayn thinks to himself, in love with the way Liam looks at him, like there’s nothing more than this moment. And Zayn can live with that. Can live like this, wrapped up in Liam, just the two of them.

* * *

Cleaned up and fresh sheets on the bed, they pad down to the kitchen, sit on the floor bathed in the refrigerator light while they pick at a carton of ice cream, sat entirely too close together.

It’s lovely, the taste of sugar when it’s thick on Liam’s tongue.

(How’s Zayn supposed to go back to casual touching when all he wants to do is wrap himself in Liam’s arms and survive on the taste of his mouth?)

“Hey, I’ve got something for you,” Liam says, breaking their kiss. He closes the door to the fridge, standing up. Zayn stays where he is, sat on the cool tiles of the kitchen floor. He watches Liam walk away from him, nothing but boxer shorts covering his bare ass. It’s hot the way he walks, with all the confidence in the world. It strikes something ablaze in Zayn's chest. He comes back, seemingly empty handed. Liam holds out one hand to pull Zayn to stand, too.

The clock on the stove reads it’s a quarter after two. There’s something about the moment that makes Zayn look, like it’s something to document.

Liam is smiling wide, happiness etched into every feature of his face. “So, I know this is like, so, so brand new. The two of us. But. It’s kind of not, at the same time, you know? And I thought maybe, if you get tired of the studio, or need some space away from the flat, you could always come here.” Liam holds out his hand, a single silver house key resting flat in his hand. “I mean, I trust you, and I like it when you’re around, and maybe this could be one of your homes, too.”

Zayn is dumbfounded, looking up at Liam with awe and surprise, his fingers reach for the key in Liam’s hand, holding it in his own. His heart is pounding in his chest, and he wants to tell Liam he loves him, more than anything, more than everything, more than anyone in the whole world at this moment, at 2:16 in the morning on whatever day it is in the middle of April. He wants to, but he settles for bringing Liam into a heat fueled kiss, sucking on his tongue and whispering a reverent _thank you_ when he pulls away.

“You’re amazing. I want you around all the time,” Liam says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Yeah?” Zayn asks.

“Yeah.”

(And just like that, casual touching is a thing of the past.)

* * *

 

“Tell me about them?”

Zayn’s voice is quiet. He sits up on the bed, cigarette between his index and middle finger. Liam lays his head on Zayn’s lap, lets Zayn run his fingers through his thick hair.

“About who?” Liam asks easily, eyes closed.

Zayn takes a drag and exhales the smoke, looking down at Liam. “Louis said—he said there were some girls that used to come by the station. Were they important to you? I kind of—I figured they were, since he mentioned them. In passing, yes, but he still mentioned them.”

When Liam’s eyes open, he doesn’t know what to expect, but it’s definitely not the way Liam’s eyes glitter impossibly in the dimly lit room. “Yeah. I guess they were.”

“Did you love them?”

Liam shrugs. “I don’t know. I loved the idea of them, I guess. Wife and kids, you know?”

Zayn stays quiet, mulling over Liam’s words; he doesn’t like the way they feel on his skin, in his brain. “That’s what you want?”

Liam sits up and looks at Zayn, like he’s trying to figure Zayn out. Zayn doesn’t know what to do with himself underneath the meticulous scrutiny, so he taps the cigarette and lets the ash fall into the ashtray on the bedside table.

“Yeah, I guess, someday. I mean—“ Liam breaks off and shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know.”

Zayn takes in a breath, darting his tongue out to wet his lips. “Do you think you would have done that with one of them? Married them and had a family?”

Liam smiles. “It was a nice idea, for a while. Thinking that I’d marry them eventually. But it gets too hard. They leave. It’s easier to keep things casual, I guess. I didn’t hold it against them.”

“You didn’t fight for them, either,” Zayn states. Liam blinks, looking away.

“No, I didn’t. Because why would I try to force someone to stay. If they loved me, they would stay because they wanted to. Not because I begged them to. It’s a two way street.”

Zayn thinks about this, about these faceless girls that walked into Liam’s life and found the exit like a revolving door. Walking back and forth because they couldn’t make up their minds. Because they liked the man in the uniform, but not the representation of the uniform. It makes sense, it a painful way, Zayn realizes, but it really does. Zayn takes one last drag before stubbing the cigarette out.

“They were stupid for leaving you,” Zayn mutters.

Liam laughs, and it’s soft, caresses his skin and Zayn smiles, his heart jumping erratic rhythms in his chest. “I think they were just saving themselves, babe. It’s not a bad thing.”

Zayn pouts. “It is if it breaks your heart.”

Liam frowns, sitting up so he’s mirroring Zayn’s position against the headboard. “They weren’t—it wasn’t—“

Zayn leans forward and kisses Liam, catches his lips when he breaks off his own words and stays silent.

“I think it was. And that’s okay. You can be mad at people for leaving, Liam. It’s a part of life, yeah, but no one has to be alone.”

Smiling, Liam wraps his arms around Zayn, pulls them down so they’re lying back on the bad. “You’re not alone, babe.”

Zayn smiles against Liam’s chest, humming. “I know that. I guess I’m trying to say that neither are you.”

* * *

Sleep seems trivial, but it’s necessary, when he can’t quite keep a conversation going, muttering nonsense against Liam’s chest while they lay in bed. There’s a cool breeze washing over their bodies from the open window even though it has to be close to the nineties outside.

Zayn sleeps soundly, fitted into Liam’s side, head over his chest. Liam’s heartbeat is quick to lull him to sleep.

* * *

(The handholding is a permanent thing now, much to Zayn’s contentedness. They do it more than not, like they’re just holding on because they can.)

* * *

Spring is melting away; summer is approaching all too quickly and the California heat is unforgivingly shredding through May.

There’s only four days until Zayn’s art show. He throws himself into finishing his sculpture. It’s just paint, now. Touching up what he can, whenever a flaw catches his eye. Sometimes he thinks he should have gone with a painting; it would have been easier, wouldn’t have taken so much time.

(He doesn’t have to worry so much over paint; it’s like second nature to him at this point, something he knows more than he knows himself.)

Zayn feels like he’s conquered something when he takes a step back. The windows to the studio are open, washing the room in a golden sheen of bright sunlight. Zayn is _happy_. For the first time in months a contented feeling bathes him, blankets him. He doesn’t know if it’s finally finishing a piece of art, or if it’s because he knows after this he can go home to Liam, or if it’s because Harry and Niall are getting serious and it makes him giddy to watch his best friend fall in love. He doesn’t know if it’s because the freedom of summer is almost here, or because he’s not had a panic attack in weeks, or if it’s just for today. But he’s happy, and oddly enough, the relief that trickles down his back makes him want to cry.

He doesn’t; he picks up a cigarette, smokes it down to the cotton filter, blowing smoke through his smile.

* * *

It’s the night before the art show, the last day of May, and the lot of them are hanging out at Louis’ apartment. It’s Niall and Harry on the couch, Liam and Zayn on the floor, and Louis taking up the loveseat by himself. There’s beers shared between the five of them, music on low behind the chatter that goes on between them.

It’s been lovely, Zayn thinks, that he and Harry have found friends in men who risk their lives for the lives of other people. It still worries him, still winds him up when he goes too long without hearing from Liam, but it’s good, so good, to know he’s found a home in each and every one of these men.

“It’s terrible being the third wheel,” Louis whines, “imagine being the fifth wheel. All of you are disgusting.”

Zayn laughs, curls into Liam’s side as he pulls an arm around his waist. He’s always liked the way they fit together seamlessly, so easily. Niall and Harry share a look, too, completely smitten.

“You’ll find your disgusting other half, too, Tommo,” Niall offers. “Just you—“

Niall is interrupted by the sound of the doorbell chiming. It’s late, almost one in the morning; Zayn doesn’t move, no one does. He thinks it could be a neighbor maybe. (He just hopes it isn’t bad news; he can’t handle any more bad news.)

The front door is in clear view from where they all sit. Louis opens the door, and Zayn can see a woman standing on the doorstep.

She’s beautiful, sleek; she’s slim and curved, brown hair falling over her shoulders, dress fluttering around her thighs. She towers over Louis in her heels. The way Louis looks at her gives it away; she’s the elusive Eleanor, the one that got away, the one Louis never talks about if he can help it.

She walks past him and everyone’s eyes are on her. She doesn’t seem to mind. Zayn knows they should leave them be, give them privacy, but she doesn’t seem to _notice_ them sitting around. Zayn can see her fingers trembling.

“Ask me again,” she says, loud and Louis stares at her, shutting the door of the apartment. He doesn’t spare them a glance; his eyes are on her, unwavering.

“Ask you what?” Louis says, defiant tone; Zayn sees him lift his chin, unwilling to drop his pride.

“You know what,” Eleanor says. Zayn knows he should look away, but he can’t. He’s confused, doesn’t know what’s going on. He looks up at Liam, just one second and can see a smile play on Liam’s lips. Zayn looks at Niall and his cheeks look warm with color and he’s smiling, too, whispering something in Harry’s ear that makes his eyes go wide and suddenly, Harry’s smiling, too.

“Why? So you can say no?” Louis tosses back. “I don’t want to do this right now. I’m halfway to drunk, and if you didn’t notice, I have—“

She doesn’t let him finish. “If you don’t ask, I’ll just stay until you do. Or maybe, I’ll just ask you.”

Louis looks taken aback; it’s quick the way anger floods his face. “Are you insane, El? You’re the one who left. And I’ve been _coping_ , and you show up at one in the morning—“

“Maybe I needed time to think,” Eleanor says, talking over Louis. “I don’t know. I just needed—I needed to realize that I can’t really live without you. I can’t. And it’s so stupid, because living without you is something I might have to do one day because you’re reckless, Louis Tomlinson. And you’re crazy, and you’ll do anything if it sounds like a good idea. We were a good idea, once.” Eleanor laughs, shakes her head. And she reaches out to him, for him, for Louis, who is looking at her with a flame in his eyes that looks a lot like the way Zayn’s mother looks at his father. Slowly, Zayn starts smiling, too.

“Eleanor, stop. Can’t—we can wait until I’m sober,” Louis mutters, like he’s begging for her to listen to him.

“Right now. Ask me, I swear to God, I’m not going anywhere this time,” she promises. Louis winds his arms around her waist, but he shakes his head.

“Too risky,” he says, but there’s a smile playing his lips. “I don’t want to lose you again.”

“You won’t. I swear it.” She pulls back from him. “Last chance to ask, Louis.”

Louis doesn’t say anything. There’s a collective intake of breath from the four of them when she’s the one that gets down on one knee, holding his hand in hers. She’s looking up at him, and he’s looking down at her. There’s a smile that Zayn’s never seen before, but it lights Louis’ face like it was meant to be there. He knows, right then, that it’s Eleanor’s smile.

“Louis Tomlinson, you insufferable, stubborn man, will you marry me? I promise to love you. I promise to stay. I promise to never, ever let you think that I’d leave. I promise to keep you warm at night, and never complain when you steal the blankets or burn the dinner you insist on making. I promise to never let you go. I promise, Louis. I’ll promise to always be here for you to come home to. _Please_ say you will.”

The four of them are staring at Louis. (Zayn doesn’t know their history, but he remembers their conversation, the way he talked about Eleanor, like it was the hardest thing he could do. And Zayn understands, right then, that he doesn’t know them, he doesn’t. But he knows Louis isn’t going to let her walk away.)

“Eleanor—“ Louis breaks off, pulling her up to her feet. “You’re going to make the most beautiful bride, you know.”

Eleanor’s got tears in her eyes, and she lets them fall, even as she smiles. “That a yes?”

Louis nods. “Yeah. Of course it is. How could I say no to you? I’ve never wanted anyone but you, you know. Ever since we met.”

She laughs and nods. “I know.”

And they kiss, right there in the living room, right there in front of the four of them, and Zayn looks away from them, catches Liam looking at him already.

“Alright, gentlemen,” Louis calls. “Get out.”

There’s laughter and hollering and congratulations, and Liam and Niall arguing over who gets the honor of best man, and it’s beautiful. Zayn’s never witnessed two people carry out a marriage proposal. He’s seen in it movies, read it in books, and yet, nothing comes close to watching Louis say yes to Eleanor at half past one in the morning, half-drunk with Eleanor crying, in front of four guys he calls his best friends.

* * *

(There’s a sort of effect that the proposal has on Zayn and Liam. When they reach Liam’s house, only a taxi ride away, the air crackles with static.

They make love in Liam’s bed, with Zayn looking straight up at Liam as his hips cant forward, as he thrusts slowly into Zayn; Zayn can’t breathe properly with the way Liam stares back at him, arms cradling his shoulders, lips pressed together but open, like they’re living off each other’s breaths.

When he comes, Liam coaxes it out of him, strong, measured pushes of his hips until Liam is coming, too, Zayn’s name dripping from his lips. Zayn tastes the _I love you_ on the tip of his tongue when Liam cleans him up, pulls him close, presses soft kisses into the curve of his shoulder. There’s something to be said about how safe he feels.)

* * *

All Zayn has left is the art show before the school year ends; having crammed for, taken, and passed his exams, he could taste freedom it was so close.

It’s the first night of June and Zayn’s invited nearly everyone, his family members, Harry and Niall, Louis and Eleanor, other guys from the station, and Liam of course. Liam, though, is more excited than anyone. It’s not lost on Zayn that all Liam’s seen of his art are the little sketches in his notebook from that very first time in the coffee shop. Zayn doesn’t think he’s waiting for any specific moment, not really, but he thinks this is a good introduction, a nice way to get him to show this side of himself to Liam. He hasn’t been hiding it, but it’s something he’s so passionate about, something he’s so quiet about because it’s the safest he feels when he’s submerged in the embrace of his artwork. There’s tranquility there, and inviting people to see it is one of the scariest things for Zayn.

So, to say he’s scared now, would probably be an understatement.

He’s dressed smart; he’s forced himself into black jeans without any holes, shiny shoes to match, a white button up and a fitted waistcoat. His hair is brushed back, off of his forehead, and he tries his damned hardest to stop his fingers from running through it. Harry stands to his side; he’s chatting with some of the other students, speaking enough for the both of them. His project is already on display and a lot of people come to see it, crowd around it, ask him about it, what his inspiration is. With that sitting in the middle of his allotted space, they don’t really take to admiring his painted canvases (which isn’t bothersome; they’re fillers at the most, something to take the space necessary but not to outshine his sculpture).

“They should be here soon,” Harry leans over to whisper to him.

He’s anxious; he knows Liam and Niall and everyone is going to show up. He knows that. It doesn’t stop the anxiety from crawling up his throat and constricting his airway.

“I’m going out for a cigarette, I’ll be back,” he answers Harry in return. Harry gives him a wary look, but nods.

“I’ll guard the masterpiece,” Harry says with a cheeky smile. Zayn can’t help but smile back. (Harry was fascinated with the piece, loved it, asked if they could keep it in the flat, right next to their record collections and the television.

Zayn promptly said no.)

* * *

The cigarette does nothing to calm him, but off to the side of the entrance, he catches sight of Niall’s shock of blonde hair, Liam trailing behind him, with Eleanor and Louis following them up to the steps of the gallery. He should have known they could clean up nicely; they’re all handsome men, it was bound to happen. Eleanor looks stunning in a knee length black number, her smooth shoulders on display and her hair up and out of her pretty face. Louis matches her in all black, and Zayn peeks at his shoes and sees something nicer than the Vans he usually wears. Niall looks nice too, a baby blue button up that no doubt brings out the blue in his eyes, paired with smart black trousers.

But of course, and Zayn may be biased, they have nothing on Liam. He’s not even dressed specially, much like the others, like himself, but he just _looks so good_. He’s wearing a tie, for fuck’s sake. Liam’s hair is styled neat, his beard scruffy but trimmed, and he’s smiling at something Niall’s said. He’s forgone the jacket; impossible with this kind of heat, but his shirt is a dark red, almost burgundy, over grey pants and Zayn wants to pull him in by his goddamn tie and his him until they crumple to the ground out of breathlessness. Zayn’s sure he mentioned it wasn’t something dress up for, but they look like celebrities, the lot of them.  

Like he can feel Zayn’s stare on him, Liam looks over and catches Zayn’s vision, and treks over, calling out to the others. They wave to him, Eleanor blowing a sweet kiss, but they make their way to the entrance, leaving Liam alone to greet Zayn. Which makes him slightly less on edge. When Liam steps close enough, Zayn does reach out for him, circling his fingers around the thin black tie and pulling Liam in close, careful to keep the burn of his cigarette from their bodies.

“You look so good,” Zayn says by way of greeting, tilting his face up to accept the invitation of Liam’s kiss. They break apart quickly, but Liam’s smiling.

“Not so bad yourself,” he says. “Kind of want to take you home right now.” Liam’s arms make their way around Zayn’s waist. Zayn takes a drag of his cigarette, takes care to exhale away from Liam’s face, even though Liam looks slightly dazed, like he likes the way Zayn looks when he smokes. (Zayn knows he does.) He throws the butt on the ground, curls his arms around Liam’s neck.

“Yeah? Let’s just ditch this place, then,” Zayn says, half serious. Liam shakes his head, leans forward for another kiss.

“Not yet. I really want to see what you’ve been working since, like, February, yeah?” Liam reasons. Zayn doesn’t stop himself from pouting, nodding in the end, because he _wants_ Liam to see what he’s been working on.

“Let’s go inside, then? I’m kind of nervous.” Zayn drags his hands down Liam’s arms, finding his hands and holding both of them in his own. He slips their fingers together, twining them, and Zayn takes a deep breath.

“I’m going to love it, I know it. If it’s anything like I’ve already seen then I know I’m going to be amazed. That I know I can promise. You’re an amazing artist, Zayn.” Liam brings their hands up to his lips, presses a kiss to Zayn’s knuckles. “Don’t be so nervous, okay?”

Zayn can’t say anything, not without sounding like a proper idiot, so he settles for nodding.

They walk inside holding hands, standing close together. He can see his sisters and his parents, standing by Harry and Niall. He doesn’t see Louis or Eleanor, but he makes his way over to where they stand by the table topped with food and beverages, smiling at his mother when she sees them.

Introductions are done, and Liam is proper, polite, everything Zayn knows him to be. He shakes his father’s hand, gives his mother a warm hug, compliments the way his sisters look tonight. He’s all crinkly eyed smiles and laughs and Zayn is so stupidly gone for him; how Liam doesn’t know Zayn’s head over heels in love with him is a mystery to him. Even Harry is giving him looks, Niall nudging him in the ribs with his bony elbow. Zayn’s father takes the girls to walk around the gallery, leaving Zayn and Liam alone with Tricia. She smiles at them sweetly.

Tricia sets a gently hand on Liam’s forearm, her face gleaming with pride. “Honestly, Liam,” she says, “Zayn talks so much about you. It’s really lovely to meet you in person. He mentioned you were handsome, but, again, much lovelier in person.”

Zayn can feel himself flush a few shades darker. “Mum, please.” Liam’s grinning to his side, linking their fingers together.

“Zayn, dear,” Tricia says, “leave me be. I’d like to get to know Liam a little more.”

Liam, the sweet man he is, brightens at that. And it’s wonderful to see on Liam’s face, that he likes them as much as they seem to like him. “You should come over. For dinner. I’m sure there’s something Zayn and I can prepare that’s—“

Tricia seems to like the idea so much she takes it and _runs_. “Nonsense, Liam. Let me into your kitchen and I’ll be _fine_. Could always use a few set of hands for a little help, though.”

Liam laughs. “Your family is more than welcome anytime to our home,” he says. Zayn feels like his insides are liquefying, too much happiness just bursting inside of him, sloshing around. 

It seems to satisfy Tricia. “Our? Zayn didn’t mention you were living together. I thought you were still living with Harry, babe?” she says, though there’s a glint in her eyes. Happiness is settled inside of her.

“I am,” Zayn says, trying to keep his cool.

Liam grins. “He just spends enough time at mine that he might as well live there,” he teases.

Tricia laughs. “Well, that’s one of the best things about Zayn; you know when he likes a place. Leaves pieces of himself behind.”

_That_ seems to get Liam, because the way he looks at Zayn makes Zayn’s skin feel like it’s on _fire_. “I’ll keep that in mind,” Liam says. Zayn tightens his fingers around Liam’s.

Zayn’s family doesn’t stay for exceptionally long; he’s happy they came in the first place. They say their goodbyes and he doesn’t miss the pointed look from his mother, the way his father beams at him, proud, the way his sisters tease him about Liam. It’s like a rush of cold air in this heat. He’s sad to see them go, he finds.

(His mother pulls him off to the side, makes him promise to bring Liam to the house for dinner, for a week’s vacation, forever, really. It makes Zayn laugh, swells his heart with how much they like him. First impressions are everything, and Liam had more than won his family over.)

“You are so gone for Liam,” Harry whispers, huge smile playing his lips.

“Yeah, I know,” Zayn says.

“You still scared to admit it?” Harry asks.

Zayn shakes his head. “Don’t think there’s anything to be scared about now, you know?”

* * *

Liam stares at his sculpture for a long time without saying anything about it. Long enough that the nerves start crawling up Zayn’s spine and spread out through his veins.

He knows how it must look; it’s of himself. It’s of himself melting away, flecks of his skin falling away to reveal something new, something different, what he feels he looks like underneath it all. There’s the stain of his burns on his shoulder, exaggerated up the right side of his body, over his spine. It’s the intricate pink of the scars that litter his art, the way they swirl around the elaborate designs of his tattoos. It’s himself and his soul searching and what he’s found inside. It’s a little revealing; Zayn feels naked every time he looks at it, but it’s refreshing when people pause to take it in, when people compliment him on a job well done, on how beautiful it is.

It doesn’t compare to the way Liam looks at him, the same way Harry had, with wide, expressive eyes, a look of utter adoration for him. And Zayn doesn’t know what to do, how to receive a look like that.

Liam is quiet; eyes dart from the painted clay back to him and then back again.  Zayn reaches out for his hand, and Liam takes it.

There’s a moment where everything whites out and the air is still and he feels like everyone around them can’t see him and Liam, doesn’t notice them. He feels like it’s just him and Liam standing in a room full of art, staring at each other.

“I love you, you know,” Liam says so casually, rolling off his tongue like he’s said it a billion times before, like it’s not the first time, like it doesn’t give Zayn half a heart attack in the middle of a summer night in the middle of an art gallery. Liam just looks at him, like he isn’t expecting anything in return, like it isn’t a milestone in their still new relationship, like it isn’t something Zayn’s been craving to hear, something Zayn hasn’t been craving to say himself.

“Hey,” Zayn says, pressing up close to Liam, appearances be damned. “I love you, too,” he says back.

Liam’s eyes shine like the stars stapled into the sky outside, brown eyes burning back into his own.

“You are amazing, you know? All of this art, your sculpture; it wasn’t anything I could have imagined. And believe me; I think I thought of everything, but this, this is beautiful. You’re beautiful, Zayn Malik,” Liam murmurs to him, close enough that no one else can hear them.

“’M not,” Zayn says, but he’s grinning at Liam.

“I’d really like to take you home now so I can show you how—“

“Hey lovebirds,” Louis says from steps away, interrupting Liam. The two of them look away from each other, focusing on Louis. “Liam, you mind sharing Zayn here? You’ve been hogging the genius all night.” He gives a light punch to Liam’s shoulder, accompanied by a wild grin. Liam relents.

“I can’t help that he loves me more than you,” Liam says with a fond smile, one Zayn reciprocates.

It’s Eleanor who comments; “Oh, it’s love now, is it?”

Zayn shrugs, tightening his fingers around Liam’s. “It was only a matter of time, really.”

Eleanor’s smile it brilliant, like the glint of light on silver metal. “When’s the wedding then?” she teases.

“Shouldn’t we be asking you lot?” Liam says. He drops Zayn’s hand in favor of wrapping his arm around Zayn’s waist. (Zayn can admit that part of him likes it more than the handholding.)

Eleanor giggles. “Yeah, I suppose. It’s soon, right, Louis? We’re planning for the end of the year. No time to waste and all that.” The skirt of her dress flutters around her thighs, and Louis comes up behind her, curling his arm around her waist. He hooks his chin over her shoulder, pressing a soft kiss into her cheek.

Louis nods. “It’s been a long time coming. Anything Eleanor wants, she can have.”

Eleanor looks at Louis like he’s the center of her world. “All I really want is you, love.”

Liam and Zayn share a look, grinning at each other.

(It’s stupid to think of; they’ve only _just_ said _I love you_ to each other not minutes ago, but Zayn can see it, staying together long enough for something that could possibly resemble a marriage. He’s never been one to believe in it, not really, but he can see it. With Liam. He can see everything with Liam. He’s too happy not to.)

“Honestly Zayn, you’ve been holding out on us. Genius, your work is. I think Eleanor’s bought the landscape wants to hang it in the flat,” Louis says, bringing him in for a hug. “Magnificent, you are. It’s unbelievable. Liam said you were an artist, but this? Amazing.”

Zayn blushes under Louis’ compliments, and Liam’s still has him in his grasp, and everything is good, everything feels good. He’s so happy he’s afraid it’ll burst out of him.

“Alright, yeah. Nice, thank you. It—it means a lot.”

“Please,” Niall says, walking up to them with Harry at his side. “Like Liam isn’t rounding up to write a check for everything else, he’s so in love with it all.” Harry grins wide and bright, laughing softly.

Liam gives Zayn a shy smile. “What? It’s beautiful, all of it. Hang it up right next to Batman and Captain America.”

Zayn laughs, shakes his head. “I think it’d look good on your walls.”

It would, Zayn thinks, a piece of Zayn tangled up in Liam, in the house he lives in. Like the art Harry hangs in his bedroom; it’d be lovely.

* * *

The night winds down and they all leave separately; the art has them all feeling a kind of way; Niall and Harry can’t stand more than a few feet apart and Eleanor and Louis keep looking at each other with hearts in their eyes.

He and Liam however; well, they’re no different, not dropping the hold they have on each other’s hand, even when Liam drives.

“I want to show you something, okay?” Zayn asks in the quiet of the car, looking over at Liam, while Liam keeps his focus on the streets before them. “Take me to the studio.”

* * *

He’s never brought someone here is the thing. Not even Harry’s stepped foot in here, no one from his family. It’s his best kept secret, the studio, where it’s a physical representation of what goes on in his head.

Liam trails behind him, quiet, and Zayn unlocks the door. All of the windows are shut; he flicks on the lights, lets the yellow light settle over all of the art he’s kept in here for the past two years.

Liam takes it all in, really; he walks around the perimeter of the room, touching his fingers to the dry tagged walls, to the painted canvases, to the other sculptures he’s started but never finished. He stares at the sketches Zayn’s hanged, flips through books of old, messy drawings. If Liam catches glimpses of himself in anything, he doesn’t say so. But he points out Harry. Harry and Niall. His sisters. His mother and father. Zayn explains the places he’s drawn, the outsides of coffee houses, the California beaches, the redwood forests, the old steps of his high school, what he could see from his bedroom window on the second story of his parents’ home. Any questions he has, he answers, because it’s Liam. And because he loves Liam, and deserves to know.

He wants Liam to know.

“I feel like—I don’t know. I’m twenty six years old and I’ve never, ever seen anything like this. It’s like an entirely different world.” Liam’s voice carries to him where he’s perched on a stool in front of an easel. He watches the fascination cross Liam’s features, the way his cheeks round when his smile’s too big. “That probably sounds stupid.”

“No, no, not at all,” Zayn is quick to say. “It’s nice that you think that. Because—like, it is? Like this is—“

“Everything?” Liam fills in for him and Zayn nods.

“Yeah. This is everything to me. Like, when I was little, I didn’t think much of it. But it’s such a big part of me. This is where I go when I’m happy, or when I’m stressed, like. When I’m scared. I came here a lot after the fire. A lot of the pieces at the show were inspired by that. By you.”

Liam looks surprised to hear that last bit. They’re standing so far away, and it’s almost difficult to hear the way Liam’s voice curls around a single word. “Me?”

“Well yeah, Liam. You make me feel so many things. And like, it’s only been months since we’ve met, but after that first time, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And that kind of—it shows up, you know? Maybe not obviously, but in colors, right? Like red and orange? Blue and green and yellow and—and it’s almost always you. Has been for a while, I think. It’s—you inspire me. And I wanted you to know that.”

Liam stares at him like he doesn’t understand. And Zayn chews on his bottom lip, itching for a cigarette.

“You—I—wow. Just—“ Liam crosses the room, stands in front of him. He towers over where Zayn is sitting, but he’s smiling like it’s the only thing he can do. “I don’t know what I did to deserve someone like you, Zayn.”

Zayn grins up at him. “I’m so messed up, Liam. I mean—I was. I still am, a little bit, sometimes. But—but you came with your nice smile and your stupid jokes and your handsome face and your ridiculous biceps and—and I think it’s more like, what did _I_ do to deserve you?”

Liam laughs, a chiming, wonderful sound. Zayn stands, pulls Liam in for a kiss. “I’m so in love with you,” Liam breathes over his lips, arms winding around Zayn’s waist.

Zayn hums. “Mhm, for a while now. A Long time. At least it feels like that.”

Liam nods, presses kiss over the sharp corner of his jawline, the column of his neck. “And I really want to get you out of these clothes, yeah?” Liam whispers, and Zayn’s heart is beating so, so fast. “Get you home, on my bed, fuck you so you feel it for days, Zayn.”

The words are sharp; they embed themselves into Zayn’s skin, burn into his flesh where Liam presses his kisses. And it’s all Zayn wants now, the thick of Liam’s cock, Liam’s body draped deliciously over the strong line of Zayn’s back while Liam fucks down into him, pressing him into the mattress. He wants the knocking of his headboard against the wall, the smell of their sex in the air long after they’ve come down from their high. He wants it now, wants it all night, into the early hours of the morning when their legs won’t support them anymore and they’re sitting the middle of the bed, willing for one more orgasm, legs and arms wrapped around each other while the sun comes up.

“Take me home, Liam,” Zayn says.

* * *

Zayn wakes slowly, blinking his eyes open; it has to be late morning with the way the sun shines through the open windows of Liam’s bedroom. He’s burrowed into Liam’s side, leg thrown over his hips, his head comfortable in the dip of Liam’s shoulder. The room is hot and pressed against Liam’s body makes for sweat slicked skin underneath the thick blankets of Liam’s bed. Fully awake, Zayn licks his lips; Liam’s still asleep, face soft with slumber, hair a mess.

They’re still naked from the night before and if Zayn moves the wrong way, he can feel the ache in his limbs. Still, he slides down the length of Liam’s body, between his legs; Liam’s hard, thick, his cock settled against his lower stomach. Zayn takes Liam in his hand, strokes slowly, teasingly, before licking around the head. Liam’s body shudders, but a look to his face shows he’s not awake yet. He takes the tip into his mouth, slowly working the shaft with his hand, tonguing the slit the way he knows Liam likes.

He knows Liam’s awake when a hand sneaks over his head, curls around his hair, pulls gently. Zayn looks up at Liam, sees him lying back, looking down at Zayn with reverence in his eyes. Zayn doesn’t pull his mouth off, just falls lower, taking more of Liam in; Liam gasps, radiating a groan from deep in his chest. Zayn hums around Liam’s cock, reaching his hand down to cup Liam’s balls; he enjoys the way Liam jerks, cants his hips up. Zayn pulls off with a obscenely loud _pop!_ , grinning up at his boyfriend.

“Good morning,” Zayn says with a lazy grin, jerking Liam with his hand.

“ _Great_ morning, one of the best mornings,” Liam says back, voice shrouded with sleep and lust, still looking down at Zayn like he’s the second coming.

Zayn hums, smiles, pokes his tongue out to lick a long strip up the shaft, press a gentle kiss to the head before taking him in again, as deep as he can, hollowing his cheeks on the up stroke, before going back down. There’s a broken groan from Liam in the middle of his heavy breaths; the hand in Zayn’s hair tightens, pulls and Zayn moans around the cock in his mouth, choking slightly when he goes down too far, Liam hitting the back of his throat.

“Jesus Christ,” Liam breathes, “Zayn, oh my god.”

Zayn drags a hand from Liam’s chest over his stomach, running his blunt nails over the hair underneath Liam’s navel, sucking and teasing Liam until there’s a stilted breath and a warning, but Zayn wants it, to taste Liam thick and hot on his tongue, come heavy and bitter, and he does, when Liam’s hips lurch up with his orgasm, and Zayn is taking it as Liam fucks into his mouth with a choked off groan. Zayn pulls off, swallows, licks Liam until he’s clean and softening.

Zayn wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, rests his head on the top of Liam’s thigh. Liam’s smile is tired and lazy, but gleaming and shiny in the late morning sunlight. He’s beautiful like this, fucked out and well spent, and Zayn could stay in bed with Liam forever, he knows.

He crawls up the length of Liam’s body, settling himself so he’s straddling across the width of Liam’s hips, leans forward and beckons for a kiss. Liam kisses him hard, thoroughly, one arm winding around his waist, while the other drags down the length of Zayn’s torso, fingers curling around where Zayn is desperately hard. Zayn breaks the kiss with a soft moan, hips moving forward to fuck into Liam’s grasp.

“Wanna ride you,” Zayn hums, looking up at Liam, watching as the smile slowly creeps across his lips, enamored.

“You literally have to give me a second here, I’m still recovering,” Liam teases, leaning forward to catch Zayn’s mouth, soft kisses before intensity, before it seems like no time that Zayn’s lips are raw and Liam’s hardening up again. Liam seems to want just as much, reaching for the discarded ribbon of condoms and bottle of lubricant that doesn’t have much left. Liam drags himself to sit up against the headboard, pulling Zayn flush against him. One of Liam’s hands round Zayn’s hips, reaches to let his fingers slip inside of Zayn where he’s a little sore, still open from last night. Liam mouths along his shoulder, presses kisses and sucks marks along the designs of his tattoos. Zayn reaches his fingers to card through Liam’s messy hair, pushing his hips back onto Liam’s fingers, fucking himself because he wants it, God, does he.

“I’m ready, I’m ready,” Zayn breathes out, impatient, and there’s a breathy laugh from Liam when his face is buried along the side of Zayn’s neck, licking a stripe upwards, kissing the corner of his jaw.

Zayn fumbles with the condom, ripping the package open and sliding it down the newly hardened length of Liam’s cock, slathering lube over it as he strokes.

There’s no way he can get over the initial push of Liam’s cock inside of him, where there’s a split second of feeling full and whole and _safe_. There’s always that beautiful feeling that rushes through his veins; it’s like the first drag of his cigarette in the early morning, the first stroke of his paint covered brush over a blank canvas. It’s addictive, he thinks, sliding his hips over Liam’s taking him inside until there isn’t any more that he can take in. There’s a pause, a stillness in the air as Liam’s hands drag down the length of his back, settle over his ass and then Zayn picks up a rhythm, slow and titillating, teasing at the very least, but oh so satisfying.

The air is filled with the sound of their sex, skin smacking against skin, the dirty way Zayn gasps for air. He fits his mouth over Liam’s, takes in the taste of his tongue, revels in the way Liam fucks up into him with the desperate push of his hips. He could stay here forever, Liam’s cock inside of him, their mouths pressed against one another’s, sucking in each other’s breath. His heart is pounding and the grasp of Liam’s hands over his hips stills his rhythm so Liam can work into him, pressing his cock deep inside to a place where his thrusts has Zayn seeing stars, throwing his head back and gasping for air in the sweetest way possible.

There’s a gasp of _right there, right there_ and _God yes, fuck me_ ; Zayn grips his hand on Liam’s shoulders, doesn’t mean to let his fingers dig in and scratch long lines down Liam’s chest, but he can’t help it, not when Liam is fucking into him so well, stealing the breath right from his lungs. He feels it when Liam’s hand wraps around his dick strokes him off until he’s coming hard, eyes shut and breath caught in his throat, Liam’s name dripping from his tongue. There’s a moment when Zayn just wants to slump against Liam and fall back to sleep, but he ruts back into Liam, tightens his hole around Liam’s cock, and Liam fucks into him until he’s coming too, hips stilled while he’s buried deep, breathing hard against the column of Zayn’s neck.

Zayn drapes himself over Liam’s chest, whimpering softly when he feels Liam adjust himself, pulling out. It leaves Zayn feeling empty, open, too exposed, but lying against Liam is better than anything. Zayn slots their legs together, tries to catch his breath and wait a while before he gives into the desperate need for a cigarette. Liam winds his hands around Zayn’s body, holds him close; he’s pressing kisses into Zayn’s sweaty hair, running his fingertips up his spine like the keys of a piano.

Zayn sits in bed, pulling the blankets over his hips as he grabs for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. He pulls one out, lights it, takes a long pull of smoke that calms the drumming of his heart and subdues the buzzing over his flesh. He leans against Liam, blowing smoke into the bedroom, until Liam plucks the cigarette from Zayn’s fingertips, pulling his own drag.

(It’s the very first time Zayn’s ever seen Liam with a cigarette, and it’s a bad habit, so bad, but it’s almost beautiful the way Liam’s lips curl around the filter, the way the smoke billows from Liam’s pink lips. Zayn takes the cigarette back to save himself from his heart palpitating in his chest at the sight.)

“What do you want to do today?” Liam’s voice rings into the room, a grin playing his lips. Zayn shrugs in his hold, stubs the cigarette out in the ashtray.

“This is good,” Zayn answers, smiling into Liam’s shoulder and pressing a kiss into his damp flesh.

Liam shakes his head. “You know I hate wasting a good day away. We could go down to the beach. It’s beautiful outside,” he suggests.

Zayn pulls back, makes a face. “It’s probably crowded by now, and that’s never any fun. Besides, you know I won’t get in the water. And you’ll complain about it the whole time we’re there.”

“I just want you to enjoy it as much as I do,” Liam says with a full pout. Zayn kisses him.

“I know. So the beach is out. And I’m hungry, so we could think about it over breakfast?” Zayn climbs out of bed, grabbing a towel on his way to the bathroom. He turns for a moment, giving Liam a look. “You better be coming along, babe.”

Liam chuckles and follows him into the bathroom.

* * *

(It turns out their day is planned out for them when Eleanor rings them and begs with her sweetest voice if they could come over and address invitations for the wedding. It’s not exactly what Zayn wanted to do, but he sits next to Liam at Louis’ dining room table, writing out names and addresses and ignores the teasing from his friends, enjoys their company.

Sometimes, when he’s this happy, he can’t help but wonder when it’s going to end, when it’s going to stop.

Humans weren’t made to withstand happiness without tragedy.)

* * *

The summer drapes over them; it’s stifling, hot, close to unbearable; the glittering sun spikes Zayn’s inspiration for his art.

* * *

On the Fourth of July, Zayn is a little bit giddy with excitement.

Liam’s on call which means they can’t go very far in case the station calls for his help, but the six of them plan for the park to watch fireworks go off. They’ve packed cases of beer, frilly wine for Harry, sandwiches and chips and basic picnic foods that carry them through the night.

He’s excited for the fireworks, the fizzing in the sky, the brightness of colors and intricate designs, to watch the glow of the fireworks light up the features of Liam’s face.

They’ve got an enormous blanket laid out on the grass, a patch that hadn’t been taken by the hundreds of other people that swarm the park. Louis, Niall, Liam, and Harry kick around a football, while Eleanor keeps him company on the blanket.

She poses for him willingly; he draws the landscape of her shoulders, the smooth curves of her collarbones, the long lines of her neck, the softness of her jaw. She’s got full lips that Zayn’s sure he captures on the page, big eyes that glitter in the setting sunlight and a thin nose; the curls of her hair frame her face, and if Zayn isn’t so completely taken by Liam, he knows she’s the kind of girl he’d go for, a classic kind of beautiful, timeless. Louis’ lucky he’s got her, really.

“Let’s see, then,” Eleanor says, sipping from a can of beer, setting it down next to her in the grass. Zayn turns his book to show her, and she beams, radiates beauty. It’s his favorite part, he thinks, seeing the reaction of his subjects, the way they glow when he shows them the way he sees them. “Zayn, you’re magnificent,” she breathes, careful not to touch her fingers to where he’s drawn with charcoal.

“Thanks,” he says easily, even though he’s sure this isn’t his best work. It’s a simple sketch; something he’ll forget about, bury underneath piles of his other sketch filled notebooks.

“Really, Zayn. I’ll have to have it framed, maybe hung over the fireplace, like how those really rich ladies have in their multimillion dollar mansions, yeah?” She’s gleaming with a smile and Zayn nods.

“Give me some time to work on something better than this. Something frame-worthy, alright?” he answers in return. “This is just practice.”

“You’re going to be worth so much when you take off, Zayn. With art like yours? It’d be a crime for you not to share it with everyone. Everyone would love it, I’m sure.” Eleanor reaches out, runs her fingers through his hair. He smiles shyly.

“Dunno, still in school. Maybe in a couple years. I’ve got a lot to learn, still,” he says modestly. He closes and chucks his book away from him, moving to lay his head on Eleanor’s lap, let her fingers run through his messy hair. She looks down at him.

“Maybe. But I’ll bet everything I have that you’ll be known for your art, Zayn. It’s really only a matter of time,” she promises, giving him a warm, motherly smile.

He hums, closing his eyes, lets her caress her fingertips over his scalp.

“Aww, don’t let him sleep; I swear he could sleep anywhere if you let him,” Harry’s voice calls, breaking the tranquility in the middle of the chaotic park. Zayn cracks a grin.

“’M not sleeping,” Zayn murmurs. He hears Liam’s laugh, close by. “I can’t sleep much if I’m not right next to you, Leeyum.”

He opens his eyes to find Liam right next to him, Louis on Eleanor’s side, Niall and Harry on the other side of Liam. It’s picture perfect, Zayn thinks.

Someone’s phone rings. It’s Louis’ and he answers cheerfully, but his face turns dark, serious and Zayn knows. Liam takes his hand.

“Let’s wrap it up, kids,” Louis says, voice tight. “Captain says to report as soon as possible. He’ll brief us when we get there.” Zayn watches Louis press a kiss to Eleanor’s temple, the way she closes her eyes.

Liam catches his attention, pulling him to sit up. He glances over at Niall and Harry, the way Harry’s face looks cold, even though Niall is cupping the side of his face, pleading for him not to be upset.

Liam places his fingers underneath Zayn’s chin, lifts minutely so they borrow each other’s vision.

“Please tell me you’ll be safe, alright?” Zayn says. Worry usually doesn’t set in until Liam’s long gone, away for his shift and Zayn hasn’t heard from him in too many hours. But the fear creeps up on him now, thick in his heart. He hates it.

“I’m always safe. Besides, I’ll have the guys with me. The more people there are, the less chance for risk, okay? And I’ll be home in a while, and I’ll make it up to you for ruining your night.” Liam leans forward for a kiss.

“Just come home, okay?” Zayn gives him a smile and Liam nods.

“Cross my heart,” Liam promises.

Louis tugs him away and he’s walking off with Niall who’s shouting, but Zayn can’t quite understand what he’s saying.

He’s stood with Eleanor and Harry, and the three of them share a look.

“I don’t want to say anything terrible, but I have an awful feeling,” Harry whispers to Zayn while Eleanor busies herself cleaning up.

He didn’t have to say anything because the same feeling sits low in Zayn’s stomach. He feels a prayer bubbling at the tip of his tongue.

* * *

Eleanor doesn’t want to be alone; Zayn understands it firsthand, so they all crowd in the flat, sit on the sofa and watch the news. There isn’t any coverage yet, they haven’t got a clue what’s going on.

It isn’t for hours later; it’s an apartment building that’s caught and from the footage on the television, it’s nasty. It’d be artistic almost, if it wasn’t so tragic. The tall building is engulfed and Zayn can see the firemen scattered about, police officers, and a bunch of civilians. It’s not too far from where they live; if he peeks out of the window he’s sure he can see the thick, black cloud of smoke taint the air. He’s sure he can smell it if he opens the door.

Harry holds Eleanor, a cool arm around her shoulders, her head on his shoulder. Zayn brings his knees up to his chest, rests his forehead on the bones of his knees.

“ _Sources say one of the floors on an upper level has caved. There are still several tenants located on the upper levels of the building; firefighters have gone in to retrieve them. No word on how they’re fairing, if they’re stable._ ”

Zayn stands then, walks out of the living room.

He locks the door to his bedroom. It’s just shy of eleven; Liam, Louis, and Niall have been gone for hours already, and they’re not coming home anytime soon. That Zayn knows. But his heart is pounding, thrumming recklessly while he lies face down on his bed. He can’t think about the worst case scenario, can’t think of how Liam would have been the first to volunteer to go inside, knows that his kind nature would have pushed him inside of that building to save people’s lives. It’s what he does, what he’s trained to do. But still, there’s a nagging feelings that buries itself in his chest, that Liam might not come home this time.

And it’s not the first time he’s felt this way, not the first time he’s flicked on the news and has seen the station’s logo on the trucks, watches with rapt attention while people are rescued, fires are put out, and Liam comes home, covered in soot sometimes if his shift bleeds into the next day, covered in dirt and ash and—and Zayn welcomes him home the best he can, with kisses and tight hugs; the best way he knows how.

It’s a waiting game; he just has to wait. And he knows it’s selfish of him to just leave Eleanor and Harry on the sofa alone when they, more than anyone, know exactly what’s going on.

He can’t though. He just can’t.

Zayn concentrates on his breathing, counting— _One. Two. Three. Four._

* * *

It’s almost four in the morning.

The death count is high; some of the firefighters didn’t make it out, a lot of the tenants were stuck inside, when the floors started collapsing. Some of them aren’t making it home. Eleanor is crying on the sofa and Harry paces around in front of the television. They don’t know what’s happening, don’t know if the count includes someone they love, someone they call a friend.

Zayn shakes; no one complains while he smokes through his cigarettes one right after the other, trying to calm himself, but he knows that’s not something he can achieve, not until he knows Liam is home, when Louis is home. When Niall comes home to Harry.

* * *

It’s almost nine; the sun’s risen and shines bright over the city. Eleanor’s asleep, and Harry’s nursing his umpteenth mug of coffee. Zayn couldn’t fall asleep, even if he wanted to.

They haven’t heard from anyone, haven’t heard anything from the station. The sinking feeling inside of Zayn just sinks further. He smokes another cigarette, looks at the clock, sighs.

He repeats.

* * *

It’s almost eleven in the morning when Zayn’s phone rings. Louis’ name flashes over the screen and he picks up immediately.

“Are you okay?” is the first thing out of Zayn’s mouth and Louis’ hesitant to say anything. He can feel it come over the line. Harry’s kneeling beside him, where he’s sitting on the sofa.

“We’re at the hospital. Not a whole lot of good news—the three of you should come down, yeah?” Louis doesn’t wait for an answer, hangs up and the line goes dead against Zayn’s ear.

He doesn’t miss the fact that it wasn’t Liam who called.

“They’re at the hospital, Harry.” In his periphery, Zayn can see Harry jump out of his seat at the table. “It was Louis who called,” Zayn continues. “He’s fine. Well, he sounds like he’s fine. But I don’t—he didn’t say anything about Niall, or Liam,” he finishes as he walks over to the sofa. He crouches down, drags Eleanor’s hair away from her face, tucking locks behind her ear. “Come on, babe, wake up. We’ve gotta get down to the hospital.”

She wakes with a start. “Is it Lou?” she asks, wide eyes, sleep lacing her voice, but it doesn’t drown out the concern.

“Nah, babe. He’s fine, I think. He gave us a call,” Zayn answers.

“Niall? _Liam_?” she gasps, concern etched into the features of her pretty face.

Harry is silent, and so is Zayn. Because they _don’t_ _know_. They’re quick to gather their things when Eleanor calls, “I’ll drive.”

* * *

There’s a fight at the reception desk because none of them are immediate family and no one’s updated records on who’s allowed in. Louis’ not in a room, so he comes down to greet them when the catty receptionist says some pretty mean things to the lot of them, tells them to _settle down_ and _have a seat_.

“Calm down, guys, Jesus,” Louis says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Half the city is shacked up here because of that damn fire. Liam and Niall are in the ICU.” Louis stands, but he’s shaking, like he’s too keyed up to stay still. Eleanor’s at his side in a second, winding her arms around his neck, and he holds her close. Zayn feels selfish for wanting them to stop.

(He’s also relieved, watching them embrace each other so tightly when he knows that it’s only Eleanor’s worst fear, losing Louis.)

_Intensive_ _Care_ _Unit_. Zayn’s heart drops and Harry stands close to him, gripping his hand for dear life; his face is devoid of any emotion, any color, and Zayn knows Harry’s seconds from crying. Zayn doesn’t know what to feel at all.

“What happened?” Harry asks, his voice deep, slow, but lethal. There’s a threat in the two words. Eleanor looks at them pleadingly. They know it isn’t Louis’ fault, but they’re on edge. Zayn’s on edge, ready to tear through walls to find Liam. To find out what the hell happened.

Louis sighs, takes in a shuddery breath. “There was some sort of explosion—I don’t know I wasn’t inside. But something happened and Niall and Liam where the second team to go in. The seventh or eighth floor collapsed and something went off, probably the gas. A third team had to go in and get them. Anyone above the eighth floor couldn’t—there wasn’t a way to get to them safely. The building was—it was too hard.” Louis’ breathing hard by the end of it, and Eleanor is pressed against him, calming him, running her thin fingers through his hair.

(Zayn can hear her murmuring, “It’s okay, Lou, it’s okay,” and Zayn wants to shout at the top of his lungs that _no_ , it _isn’t_ okay.)

“What—what’s going on with Niall?” Harry questions, winded; there’s anguish etched into the smooth features of his face, making him look older than he really is. “Is he going to be okay?”

Louis nods. “I think he’s sleeping now; he’s got a broken leg, poor bastard. But there was some smoke inhalation; they want to make sure his lungs are working; that there isn’t any lasting damage.”

“And Liam?” Zayn asks, before Louis can even finish his sentence. “What about Liam? Why’s he up there?”

Louis hesitates. “Something fell on him. Trapped him. The team didn’t know he was missing at first; he’s being treated for some broken bones, too. Some burns. It’s—it’s pretty bad.”

Zayn steels himself, let’s himself shut down. Harry’s holding onto him, so he can’t run away like he wants to. He clings to Harry.

_It’s pretty bad._

_It’s pretty bad._

_The team didn’t know he was missing at first._

_It’s pretty bad._

* * *

It takes a few days for the paperwork to go through so Zayn is authorized to see Liam. He spends the days chain smoking, the nights drinking coffee and letting Harry run his fingers through his hair until Harry’s asleep on his shoulder.

Liam’s awake, conscious, Louis says; it’s not coma bad, which Zayn is thankful for, but there’s still the pain that beats on Zayn like a relentless drum when Zayn walks into Liam’s floor where all the critical patients are stationed.

There are people in Liam’s when he arrives. Zayn is tired, irritable from sleeping on the dusty, creaky chairs in the waiting room. He knows Harry is off coddling Niall, so he doesn’t have a crutch to lean on when he sees Liam for the first time in _days_.

Liam is sleeping when he walks inside; there’s an older woman standing over Liam, smoothing his hair back from his forehead where it lays limp without product. Zayn sucks in a breath, harsh, a breath that has him coughing in the doorway. It alerts the woman; he knows she’s Liam’s mother, can tell by her cheeks, the shape of her eyes.

“Hello,” she says carefully, observing him from where she stands. “Can I help you, dear?” Her voice is sweet, but there’s an underlying sound of defense that Zayn catches. He doesn’t blame her.

He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know if Liam’s told her about him. “I’m Zayn,” he replies, running his fingers through his own disheveled hair. “I—uh, I came to see if—how he’s doing.”

He watches her face soften, the hard edges of cautious melt away. “Well, come on in, darling,” she says quietly. “He’s doing just fine. A bit beat up, but he’s been through worse. He’ll be on his feet in no time.”

He doesn’t say anything to her, just nods. There are two ladies sitting in the chairs by the window, engrossed in their phones. The lot of them look like they’ve been here for as long as Zayn has.

“Zayn, you said?” One of the girls asks, looking directly at him, catching his eyes. Zayn nods, looking down at his feet, then back up to Liam. He looks fine, like he does when he’s asleep when Zayn is right beside him. He’s plugged into a plethora of machines, a heart monitor beeping incessantly and Zayn can see the cast on his left arm and the wrist of his right hand. The blankets are tucked up high; Zayn can’t assess anything else.

(Still breathing, heart beating, Zayn has to remind himself when his chest tightens up and he feels dizzy from the panic that surges through him.)

“We’ve heard loads about you, Zayn. We keep pestering Liam to bring you around,” one of the girls say. She has brown hair pulled back into a messy bun, the same round cheeks that Liam has when he smiles. “I’m Nicola, Liam’s sister. This is Ruth, our other sister. And that’s mom.”

Zayn’s eyes dart from face to face, committing names to memory. He offers a gentle smile, settling on Liam’s mother.

“Please, call me Karen,” she says, and Zayn feels overwhelmed. These are the photographs Liam has in his home, in his room at the station, the people he loves more than he loves himself. And he’s meeting them in a hospital room while Liam is injured.

“It’s nice to meet you all,” Zayn says after a moment. “I’m sorry—I didn’t—I wasn’t sure what to expect. I guess I never thought I’d meet you while Liam was hurt.” Zayn shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

It’s Ruth who speaks next. “Well, it was inevitable. I say better now than later. Putting a face to a name and all.”

“A handsome face it is,” Karen says. She steps over to him, wraps him up in a hug and Zayn can smell the apples and the sheer scent of home that’s always wrapped up in Liam’s bed sheets. When she pulls away, Zayn smiles for her, because he knows she expects it, because it makes him happy to know they _do_ know about him. That Liam _talks_ about him when he isn’t around. “You look rather young; younger than I expected anyway.”

“’M twenty,” he says almost defensively. “Not that young.”

The ladies laugh, bright pink on their cheeks. Zayn settles.

“Not that young,” Nicola echoes. “Baby brother’s robbing the cradle. He can’t even buy alcohol.” She grins at Zayn, pearly white teeth glinting in the light.

Zayn smiles at her, moves to sit on the edge of Liam’s bed. He glances at Liam; he doesn’t stir.

“Tell us about yourself, Zayn,” Karen says. “Liam talks about how you’re an artist. Do you go to school?”

Zayn stutters for a bit; then he talks for as long as he can, answering questions as he goes. He lives in a flat with his best friend, he’s lived in California his entire life; he goes to a university that’s relatively close by. He studies art and has a minor in English because he loves to read. He met Liam by chance. He’s completely in love with Liam. He’s afraid that he might lose him one day.

They listen, hanging on to every word until Liam does wake, groaning slightly as he shifts. It’s Zayn who jumps at the noise, standing by his side in a second, running his fingers through his hair.

“Leave him be, nosy women,” Liam croaks, his voice barely there, just a whisper really. He looks up at Zayn with glittering brown eyes, a smile teasing his lips. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

Zayn blushes, ducking his head slightly. Just a small kiss to the corner of Liam’s lips. “How’re you doing, babe?”

(“ _’Babe’_ , Nic, they have nicknames for each other, look at that,” Ruth says in a rather loud whisper.

“It’s adorable, too cute. Snap some pictures, yeah? To show Dad,” Nicola returns.)

“’M fine. I’m glad you’re here,” Liam says. “Missed you.”

“I was downstairs until they could let me up. I didn’t want to miss anything. Louis and Eleanor kept me company some. And Harry of course. Louis was the only one allowed up,” Zayn explained. He cards his fingers soothingly over Liam’s scalp, keeping his voice low. “I missed you so much.”

Karen’s voice startles him.

“Come on girls. I’m starved. Let’s give the boys a moment,” she decides. She gives a kiss to Liam’s forehead, dares to do the same with Zayn and the girls follow suit, kisses to foreheads and trailing behind Karen, until Zayn and Liam are alone. Zayn crumples, tries his best not to put his weight on Liam, but it’s been a long time that he’s had to be strong, and he can’t anymore.

“Babe, Zayn, I’m okay, I’m right here,” Liam whispers, and Zayn shakes his head.

“I—God, Liam, it was terrible, watching everything on the news, waiting for someone to call us. Waiting for you to come home—it’s _never been this bad_. There were so many—so many, Liam and I couldn’t help but think you were one of them. And it fucking scared me, Liam. I thought I was losing you,” Zayn reveals in a broken sob. His face is wet with the tears he wouldn’t let himself shed the last couple of days, and seeing that Liam’s okay, he can’t help but let the feeling of relief flood him. “And then the stupid people—the hospital wouldn’t let me in to see you, and all I wanted was to see you, even for like two seconds, just to make sure you were still breathing, God, I was fucking terrified.”

Liam can’t move much—his left arm is broken and his right wrist is fractured, and he’s got burns that run up the right side of his body, Zayn learns. He’s out of commission for a while—but Liam’s breathing, heart beating.

“I’m sorry, I know—“

“ _No_ ,” Zayn cuts Liam off with a pointed glare. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Liam. You promised you would come home. And you did. That’s literally all I could ask of you. I knew—I know what you do. I know how dangerous it is. I know what it means. I can’t hold you to any of it. You have nothing to be sorry for, yeah? So don’t start apologizing now.” Zayn clears his throat, gives Liam a smile. “I love you, okay? God, I love you so much.”

Liam’s smile blossoms and it tugs at Zayn’s heart. “I love you, too, Zayn.” His smile melts into a wince when he tries moving. “I’m going to be here for a while. The nurses finally stopped hovering.”

“Are you feeling alright? Any pain.”

Liam makes a face, like he wants to be brave, but he’s giving in. Zayn follows Liam’s gaze to the clock on the wall. “ _Yeah_. Lots. But I—the nurse just administered it. I’ve only been sleeping for an hour or so. I can’t ask for more.”

Zayn pouts. “Anything I can do to distract you?”

Liam smiles, nodding his head. His eyes droop a little, like he’s being lured back into sleep. “Draw for me?”

Zayn is almost bewildered; of all the things Liam could as for, he chooses this. “Alright.”

So he grabs the bit of stationary and a pen on the table by the window where the girls were sitting. He pulls a chair up close to Liam’s beside so Liam can look over his shoulder.

He starts to sketch.

* * *

(There’s a service for the firemen that didn’t come home from the fire. Zayn watches it on the news because he isn’t strong enough to go. There’s no way he can build up the strength to stand near people who’ve lost someone they called a hero. He’s still shaking with the thought of losing Liam. It isn’t fair for him; it’s peculiar the way he feels like he’s taunting them, like he’s showing them up, the fact that Liam will come home in a few weeks safe and sound while some of the people at the memorial will go home to empty homes and empty beds.)

* * *

There are times he goes back home, to his and Harry’s flat, and the air is musty and old; he doesn’t suspect Harry’s been around much, always with Niall, that one. He doesn’t blame Harry for a second.

Zayn tries not to make himself feel too comfortable in Liam’s house without Liam.

He cleans, does laundry, sketches, and tries not to trash the house with everything he owns. It’s too easy to uproot himself from his flat and into Liam’s house. He thinks, fondly, that Liam would like the little touches of himself that he leaves behind when Liam finally does come home.

* * *

It’s almost eleven; the sun has long gone down and Liam has begged Zayn to go home and get some rest. Naturally, Zayn shacks up at Liam’s, lying back in Liam’s bed where it kind of smells more like Zayn now. It’s almost disconcerting; Zayn just wants his boyfriend home, safe, right next to him so his heart will stop pounding with worry.

He’s got a record on, something cool and soft, a little gentle to calm Zayn’s nerves. He’s lonely, and Harry’s not quite separated himself from Niall’s side, and he wasn’t going to come between Eleanor and Louis’ bubble of love—it’s stupid the way he misses Liam, sometimes. (Codependency isn’t attractive, not like this).

From somewhere on the ground, between his third or fourth cigarette and a second album change, his laptop dings with an email. He almost ignores it—it’s late enough on a summer night that it could literally wait until the morning. For the lack of anything better to do, he shoves away the sketch pad in his lap and lets it fall atop the duvet so he can dig out his laptop from where it’s buried under a pair of jeans at the side of the bed.

It’s on his school account, from his professor. It seems almost weird that she’d be emailing him in the middle of the summer—he hasn’t signed up for any of Professor Diaz’s classes yet, so it can’t be any assignments.

He clicks the email, taking in a drag from his cigarette.

 

> **_To: zayn.malik@uofc.edu_ **
> 
> **_From: a.diaz@admin.uofc.edu_ **
> 
> **_Sent: July 31 10:57 PM_ **
> 
> **_Subject: Hope summer is treating you well!!!!!_ **
> 
> _Zayn,_
> 
> _I know contacting you might come as a surprise considering the time and date. Forgive me for being a nuisance._
> 
> _It’s been about a month since the showing at the gallery; you’ve heard how interested some gallery owners can become once partaking in the showing of student art. There’s a myriad of pupils they can find potential in, an abundance of art they find themselves interested in._
> 
> _Usually, the feedback we get back is minimal; most of the time, gallery owners don’t quite double take at a handful of students still wet behind the ears. Yet, one particular gentleman I’ve been in contact with mentioned something very interesting to me and I’d thought I’d share it with you._
> 
> _Mr. Cowell would like to sit down with you in the near future and get to know you._
> 
> _It’s almost unheard of, gallery owners plucking students, even some as bright and talented as my own. And still, he thought to say some colorful things about your pieces, Zayn. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity to be singled out by someone so well known in the realm of art. I know this is something good for you, especially when you’re so young and have so much to look forward to._
> 
> _I’ve taken the liberty to attach Mr. Cowell’s contact information; he’s asking to meet within the next few weeks—I would advise you put together a portfolio, Zayn, bring it with you. He’s going to want to see what you’re capable of._
> 
> _In all honesty, I hope you understand that this is a great chance for you as an artist. I hope you consider yourself lucky garnering this kind of attention. Heed my advice, Zayn, and don’t doubt yourself. You’re absolutely brilliant._
> 
> _I’m just an email away if you have any questions at all._
> 
> _Please take care._
> 
> _Best wishes,_
> 
> _Ana Diaz_

Zayn reads the email and rereads the email.

And then he deletes it.

* * *

It’s weeks before Liam’s discharged from the hospital. Liam keeps making jokes about not being able to do much with his arms because they’re both immobilized. Zayn doesn’t think he’s funny.

Karen sticks around in the beginning, and so do Ruth and Nicola, before they go back home at Liam’s insistence.

When Zayn meets Liam’s father, Geoff, it’s nerve-wracking and he’s not at all as confident and charming as Liam had been with his own parents, but Geoff pulls Zayn off to the side and thanks Zayn for sticking around, for thinking Liam was worth it. It makes Zayn think for a while; who could _ever_ think Liam wasn’t?

* * *

It’s the beginning of August that Liam finally gets his casts off, but he has therapy to endure to get the strength back in his arm and wrist after they’ve been out of use for a while.

Zayn can see the happiness cross Liam’s face to finally have his limbs back in working order. He’s still not due back to work for a couple more months; he’s on leave until he’s reached one hundred percent health.

Which is fine by Zayn; he’s more than happy to have Liam home the whole summer with him.

Sometimes he thinks about Professor Diaz’s email, sometimes he thinks about dragging the email back to his inbox, making use of the contact information given to him. He’s not sure what’s holding him back; he hasn’t told Liam about it, or Harry, or anyone. Not a single person knows about what he’s been offered and is actively throwing away. It makes him sick sometimes, thinking about it.

But then, there’s a feeling of selfishness, something burning at the pit of his stomach when he watches the way Liam moves so carefully around him, when he stops around the house like he’s stuck in a memory. It doesn’t hit Liam like it used to crash down on Zayn. It’s subtle. And how could Zayn think about taking advantage of something so wonderful when he should be caring for Liam?

* * *

Zayn never notices the way his pencils have dulled down to nubs until the wood around the lead is scratching at the paper, tearing it apart.

* * *

“Stop, Zayn.”

Zayn’s hands still from where they skittered up underneath Liam’s shirt, over the gentle rippling of the scars that littler the side of Liam’s body. They’re lying innocently on Liam’s couch, Zayn tucked in between the back of the sofa and Liam’s back in the living room, where something plays quietly on the television. Liam is engrossed, but Zayn has other ideas, better ways to use up the time as the night crawls on and they can’t find sleep as easily as they used to.

Zayn has already memorized the way the scars draw up from the middle of Liam’s right thigh, over his hip and his ribs, touching his shoulder and the upper portion of his right arm. They flicker over his chest; his skin is smooth where he’s scarred, and Liam’s grown self-conscious about them. Zayn understands it, or tries to, has noticed the way Liam confines himself to clothes, doesn’t dress with the lights on, doesn’t fuck Zayn anymore. As if it could change the way Zayn thinks about Liam, like it makes Zayn think any less of Liam. Zayn notices the way Liam gets a little shy when he tries to change his clothes or when Zayn clambers into the warm steam of the running shower, up behind Liam so Zayn can stretch his arms around the middle of Liam’s waist. Liam will extract himself, leave the shower, and even with the heat of the steam, it makes Zayn cold.

Zayn loves them, adores them, because they’re a part of Liam, like his tattoos, like the hair on his navel, like the freckles that line the bridge of his nose when he’s in the sun for too long.

He has to reassure Liam, on more than one occasion, that he loves Liam, no matter what, that he loves him completely and unconditionally.

It doesn’t seem like it’s breaking through to Liam. It doesn’t seem like Liam _believes_ Zayn, and Zayn can’t understand that at all.

“Hmm?” Zayn hums.

Liam’s fingers wrap around Zayn’s wrist, remove Zayn’s hand from where it had snuck up the side of Liam’s waist. Liam doesn’t move from where his hand is grasped around Zayn’s wrist, like he’s denying Zayn. “Please don’t.”

Liam doesn’t look at Zayn, doesn’t spare him a glance, but Zayn can see the heat flush his face, the way his cheeks are dyed rose. In any other moment, Zayn would have thought it pretty, but now, it’s almost heartbreaking.

“I want you,” Zayn murmurs, pressing his face into Liam’s back, dropping kisses along his shoulder.

Liam’s eyes are guarded when he looks behind him, catching Zayn’s eyes, and Zayn finds it difficult not to recoil away from his gaze, the heaviness of the unsaid words Zayn doesn’t want to hear. “Honestly, Zayn. I’m not in the mood.”

Sitting up, Liam rests his elbows on his knees, dropping his face into the palms of his hands. Zayn watches him silently.

“Is this about—“

“It’s not about anything, Zayn,” Liam cuts in, his voice low, defensive. He doesn’t look up and Zayn’s heart clenches in his chest. “I’m just not in the mood.”

Zayn sucks in a breath. “It’s got to be about something, Liam. You don’t let me touch you anymore.”

“I just—I don’t—I…” Liam sighs, shaking his head. Zayn doesn’t move, doesn’t want to scare him off. “I just—I don’t know, Zayn.”

Zayn sits on the edge of the couch, an urgent desire coursing through him to comprehend what Liam is going through. The last thing Zayn wants is to hurt Liam. The last thing he wants is for Liam to think he’s unwanted. Because it’s quite the opposite, really.

“Is it because it hurts?” Zayn asks, slowly reaching out to touch Liam’s shoulder. “Does it hurt you?”

Liam shakes his head. “It’s not—it doesn’t hurt. It just—“ Liam flushes and drops his gaze to the floor. “It looks _terrible_. It feels even worse, Zayn. I’ve got all these scars and they make me look—“

There’s a chill that tears down Zayn’s spine, that claws down his back and nestles underneath his heart, makes a home in the cage of his ribs. “Please don’t finish that, Liam, please don’t.”

Liam looks at him then, eyes dark, almost void of emotion, but Zayn can see it. Zayn can see the flinching fear that Liam truly and completely thinks that Zayn doesn’t find him attractive anymore.

“Well? It’s true,” Liam counters, turning away from Zayn, pulling away from him. He paces in front of the television, walking back and forth, keeping his eyes carefully away from where Zayn sits.

“Liam. Liam, stop.” Zayn walks up to Liam, takes his hands. “Look at me, _please._ ”

Liam does, he does and Zayn sees the heaviness on his shoulders sag his posture, like he’s been defeated.

“Listen to me, Liam. I—I don’t know _what_ I did to make you think this, to make you feel like this, like you’re—like. Okay.” Zayn takes a breath, lets it settle in his lungs before he’s exhaling. “I love you. I love _all_ of you. And this is going to sound mushy and sappy as fuck, but I mean it, Liam.” Zayn clings to Liam’s fingers, keeps Liam’s watery gaze, determined to be certain that Liam understands everything Zayn is saying. “They don’t make you look anything but you. They’re a part of you. Like your tattoos. Like the hair on your legs and your bushy eyebrows and your ears. They’re a part of you and I love them. I like touching them. I like looking at them. And—and maybe you don’t feel comfortable yet because of them, and that’s okay. They’ve changed you, but I swear to god you’re so beautiful—“

Liam leans forward and kisses Zayn, right there on the mouth and Liam’s grinning, laughing, honestly laughing like they weren’t close to tears just seconds ago. He’s laughing and kissing Zayn and Zayn is kissing back and it’s almost awkward because all they can do is press their lips for a second at most before they burst into more laughter. And there’s something that lifts off of Liam’s shoulders; Zayn can feel it in the strength of Liam’s back when he lets go of Zayn’s hands and Zayn winds his arms around Liam’s waist. Zayn can feel it in the muscles of Liam’s shoulders when Liam doesn’t flinch away when Zayn runs his hands over the long line of his spine. Zayn can feel it, and it feels good.

Liam pulls back to look down at Zayn. He presses his lips against Zayn’s forehead. “I’m sor—“

“Shut up, Liam. There’s _nothing_ to be sorry about,” Zayn promises, burying his face in Liam’s neck. “Nothing, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” Liam murmurs.

They stand there for a while, Zayn’s arms around Liam, holding him close like the moment will dissipate and Liam will start pushing Zayn away again.

“I really am, though,” Liam whispers. “And before you get back on your soapbox,” Liam interjects before Zayn can even open his mouth, “I’m sorry because I didn’t—I didn’t mean to affect you, too, okay? I didn’t mean to make you feel like—like maybe I didn’t want you. Because I do. Like, all the fucking time, yeah?”

Zayn grins, bright, slightly exhausted, but like he’s victorious. “Show me?”

“Show you what?” Liam says, cocking his head to the side.

Zayn laughs, but he slides his hands from Liam’s back until his palms rest over Liam’s ass. “Sometimes I think you’re really dense.” Zayn mutters, shaking his head with a smile. But he surges up on his toes to press his mouth to Liam’s, rushing headfirst into a searing kiss, hands cradling the back of Liam’s head to commandeer Liam’s attention. Against the fullness of Liam’s lips, Zayn whispers, “Show me how much you want me, babe.”

And Liam does, hoisting Zayn up into his arms, hands resting on the backs of Zayn’s thighs, holding him up as Liam takes them to the bedroom.

* * *

Zayn takes his time; it’s so easy to. Liam is pliant underneath the heaviness of his fingertips, shy underneath the yellow light that illuminates the bedroom, but Liam doesn’t push Zayn away. Not when Zayn takes time to press his fingers against Liam’s flesh, drag them over the scars Zayn knows Liam hates, to press kisses down into the marred skin where Liam spent so much time hiding from Zayn.

Naked on the bed, Zayn re-maps the planes of Liam’s body, until he’s writhing, until it’s just Liam’s heavy breaths when Zayn busies himself sucking marks into Liam’s chest, peppering him with dark hickeys that’ll last for days and by then, Zayn will have covered Liam in new ones.

It’s different; Zayn doesn’t like to think they’ve settled into a routine when it comes to sex, but tonight it’s about Liam. It’s about Liam and his body and Zayn’s duty as his lover to make Liam feel as sexy as Zayn thinks he is.

Straddling Liam’s hips, Zayn leans down to kiss Liam, to cover Liam’s mouth with his own, suck on his bottom lip, bite at it, kiss him until his lips are that cotton candy pink color Zayn adores. Liam clings to him, holds onto him, touches him, and it all feels like it’s a first time.

“Zayn,” Liam breathes, looking up with those big brown eyes, hooking Zayn in, keeping him there; like there’s anywhere else Zayn would ever want to be than pressed naked against Liam’s body, curled up in his arms, kissing those lips, sucking on his flesh.

“Okay?” Zayn asks, and Liam nods and Zayn feels good, feels whole. It’s as terrifying as it is exhilarating.

 Zayn slinks down the length of Liam’s body, dragging his lips over Liam’s skin, the ripples of muscles in his stomach, tonguing the circle of his navel, down to where Liam is hard, admittedly neglected, leaking thick drops of precome onto his abdomen. It’s beautiful, an image Zayn has always wanted to try getting down on paper, whether it be with his hand and a pencil or the shutter of a camera lens, Liam has always been too shy to, but it’s a sight that Zayn can’t forget even if he tried.

He mouths at Liam’s cock, at the tip where he’s red and wet, against the underside to hear Liam choke back a groan. Zayn flicks out his tongue and licks a long stripe up against the thick vein, and then swallows him down. Liam doesn’t even pretend to keep his hips still, just fucks up into Zayn’s mouth and it feels so fucking good Zayn takes it, lets Liam dick down into his throat, until Zayn has to pull off to breathe.

“God, fuck,” Liam breathes, and yeah, Zayn gets it—they haven’t touched like this in God knows how long, and it’s got to feel absolutely incredible. “Fuck, you’re so _good_ —“

Zayn continues mouthing over Liam’s dick, taking him down deep as he slicks up his fingers, presses one against Liam’s hole. When he’s inside, Zayn has to pull off of Liam’s cock to press kisses against the insides of his thighs, sucking bruises against the pale flesh, eyes flicking up to watch Liam’s face.

Liam’s quite a sight; head thrown back, body arched, hips fucking down against the thick of Zayn’s fingers inside of him. _Incredible_. Liam begs for him to keep going, pleads for more fingers, and Zayn doesn’t deny him. Zayn can’t deny Liam anything. Between watching Liam’s face and the way his fingers disappear into Liam’s hole, Zayn’s rubbing his own cock down into the mattress, trying to keep himself together as he stretches Liam with three fingers, sucking the tip of Liam’s dick into his mouth as Liam cries out, as Liam says his name like a prayer, like it’s all he wants. It’s intoxicating, in every cliché meaning of the word, doping him up and making him shake with sheer arousal, like it’s an addiction.

Zayn’s so hard he’s got to be soaking Liam’s sheets underneath where his hips won’t stop canting down into the bed.

“Zayn, _Zayn_ , babe, please just fuck me,” Liam grunts, “ _please_.”

Liam grabs for him, and Zayn slides his fingers out, wipes them down on the sheets before crawling up the length of Liam’s body. They kiss and it’s slow, intense, commands all of Zayn’s attention. And they kiss for a long while, until they’re fucking _against_ each other and Liam is pleading for Zayn to slick himself up and slide into him.

So Zayn does. He’s reaching for the condom, but Liam’s grabbing his wrist again.

“Don’t. Not tonight,” Liam whispers, and it feels out of place for Zayn to protest with some lame excuse like, _It’ll be really messy, babe_ , because he wants it. Fuck, he does. So Zayn nods. He nods and slicks up his cock and pushes Liam’s thighs back so when Zayn looks down and presses his cock into Liam, all he sees is the way Liam stretches around him, swallows him in and Zayn is completely enraptured by the sight of it. He pushes in slow, flicking his gaze up to Liam, to watch his face as he stares back at Zayn, vulnerable and open, exposed.  

In all the times they’ve fucked, Zayn’s never felt like this.

(He remembers the first time he lay on his back for Liam, how he opened himself up and invited Liam in, but God, not even _that_ compares to the way Liam’s body drags him in, the way Liam’s body says everything Liam means to in prose constructed with the movements of Liam’s hips, the touch of his fingertips, the brush of his bitten raw lips.)

Zayn leans forward, Liam’s legs wound around his body, and when Liam says to, says it’s okay, Zayn drags his cock out and sinks back in that suffocating tight heat, builds a heady rhythm that has Zayn’s heart hammering in his chest. He stares down at Liam, watches as the sweat glistens on his forehead, the way his eyes look, wide and expressive, how he bites down on his bottom lip. Zayn takes Liam’s hands and presses them into the pillows on either side of Liam’s head, tangling their fingers as Zayn holds Liam down as he fucks into him, deep strokes of his cock as Liam clenches around him, gasps when Zayn picks up the pace, fucks him hard, but not reckless. Each press of his hips is calculated, dozens of meanings behind the way Zayn’s wiry body pushes into Liam, gives Liam everything he’s got until Liam believes him, really believes him.

Leaning forward, Zayn licks a stripe over Liam’s throat, sucking the flesh just next to the coffee colored stain of a birthmark that sits like a brand until he’s made up a startlingly red mark. He puts his lips to Liam’s ear, mustering up the strength to keep his voice even.

“I’m not going anywhere, do you understand me?”

He can feel the way Liam nods, the gasp for more as Zayn angles his hips just right to make Liam cry out, to make him shudder, to make Liam’s lips drip with Zayn’s name until it’s stuck in his throat and that’s all he can say.

“ _Please_ , Zayn, please don’t stop,” Liam says, voice tight, shredded, completely fucked out. Zayn slows, but he doesn’t stop, not with the deliberate way he cants his hips, leaning down to catch Liam’s mouth with his own. The kiss is deep, tongues sliding alongside each other, Zayn drawing Liam in and sucking on his tongue.

“You’re so beautiful, Liam. God, so—“ Zayn breaks off when he lets Liam’s hands free, shakes over Liam from the way Liam drags his nails down Zayn’s back. The headboard knocks furiously at the wall with Zayn’s exertion, how hard he thrusts into Liam. It’s symphonious, Liam’s cries and the squeaking of Liam’s bed, Zayn’s words barely audible through the slap of their flesh, the sloshing of blood in Zayn’s ears as his heart pounds to keep up. “God, you’re taking it so well, babe, so _good_.”

Zayn swallows each of Liam’s helpless moans, until he’s reaching between them, taking Liam’s leaking cock into his hand and stroking haphazardly, without matching the careful rhythm of his hips. 

“You gonna come, babe?” Zayn wonders aloud in a thick voice, shrouded with lust, looking down to watch the way Liam’s eyes go wide for a second before shutting down tight.

“Fuck, _yes_ , I’m so close, I’m— _Zayn_ —“

Liam comes, thick and hot over his belly, clamps down tight around Zayn’s cock until Zayn can’t quite take the pressure of it anymore, until it coils deep in his belly and buzzes along his skin, and he’s panting into Liam’s mouth as Zayn’s coming, fucking deep inside of Liam and spilling everything he has into him. He comes hard enough that his hips spasm and he can’t keep his eyes open, can’t do anything but lay flush against Liam’s body, sweaty and spent, searching for his breath like he’s going to take it right from Liam’s lungs.

“Fuck, Zayn,” Liam groans, but doesn’t move. And neither does Zayn, although he should. “What the fuck was _that_?”

Zayn doesn’t have much energy left, but he finds it in himself to chuckle. “What?” He looks down at Liam, drags the palm of his hand over Liam’s forehead to smooth the damp hair from his face. “I had a point to prove.”

“Well, fuck me, mate.”

Zayn laughs. “I just did.”

Liam rolls his eyes, pushing Zayn off until Zayn goes willingly, wincing slightly at how wet Liam feels with Zayn’s come fucked inside of him. Liam doesn’t quite move, so Zayn does. Even in his exhaustion, Zayn gets up to find something to clean Liam off with, at least until he can convince Liam to get in the shower. (Even though, more often than not, it’s Liam trying so hard to convince Zayn that sleeping covered in come is _never_ a good idea.)

Liam’s eyes are closed when he comes back and he’s resting on his stomach. Zayn takes him in, notices the marks along his shoulders that Zayn made with his mouth, the scars that sit on Liam’s flesh, stark reminders of his unbridled bravery. His eyes settle over Liam’s build, the broadness of his shoulders and the muscles of his back, the dimples just above the tiny swell of his ass. Zayn has the audacity to blush slightly at the sight of his come on the backs of Liam’s thighs.

“I can feel you staring.”

Liam’s voice shakes Zayn from his stance, and he moves towards the bed, careful to clean Liam of all the excess fluids that are surely going to make him uncomfortable.

“Who can blame me? You’re gorgeous,” Zayn murmurs.

Liam doesn’t say anything, and Zayn doesn’t push him. He flings the towel somewhere to the floor, halfheartedly promising himself he’ll get the laundry in the morning. He shuts off the light before curling up into Liam’s side.

It’s a moment before Liam stretches himself over Zayn’s chest, tucks his face into Zayn’s neck.

“Love you,” Liam says. “Love you so much.”

Zayn smiles, because of Liam, because of himself, because of what they have and how he’d never thought he’d have something like this. “Yeah, babe. Love you, too.”

There’s a beat of silence, several beats before Liam’s speaking again, muffled against Zayn’s neck.  “You’re going to fuck me like that again in the morning, right?” Liam pulls up to look down at Liam, a grin stretching his lips, teeth shining from the minimal moonlight dripping through the window.

Laughing, Zayn finds Liam’s lips with his own. “I’ll fuck you like that forever if it makes you happy.”

“You make me happy,” Liam says without hesitance, like it’s the truest thing Liam knows.

And Zayn’s content with that, let’s Liam rest back down into Zayn’s body, lets him drop down into a well-deserved sleep before Zayn is whispering, “Yeah, babe. You make me happy, too.”

* * *

(Zayn gets another email from Professor Diaz, adamant that he meet with Mr. Cowell. This time he doesn’t delete it. In fact, he _replies_ , because this is everything he’s ever wanted. And with Liam snuffling silently by his side at two thirty in the morning, Zayn finds that he’s got everything he needs; he should go for something he wants to.

So, there’s a meeting set up. For the beginning of September, when school starts back up and Summer dwindles into autumn and the sun is a calm warmth on his flesh.

He doesn’t quite tell Liam. Or Harry. Or anyone. He doesn’t know how to, doesn’t know how to talk about something so great when it can be ripped from underneath him in seconds.

He just. He keeps it to himself.)

* * *

 

It’s sticky hot by the end of August, where the heat is tedious and a reminder of the kind of nightmares that still plague Zayn at night.

(Autumn doesn’t bring any promises of cooler weather, he knows, but there’s a blind hope it will.)

There’s a birthday to celebrate, too, where Liam turns twenty seven and Harry works on a cake and Zayn works on a gift. Liam’s too nice, even on the one day that he can selfishly celebrate himself, the fact that he’s alive.

At the very end of the night, after they sing birthday songs and exchange gifts, Liam pulls him close and tells Zayn, “I’m just lucky I’ve got you, yeah?”

(There’s something different about it; it’s not an _I love you_ , something so passively normal that it strikes something hot deep inside of Zayn. It only serves for Zayn to think that maybe the lucky one is him.)

* * *

The summer melts away into fall and the cool September breeze is welcomed on sunburnt skin.

* * *

 

Zayn is bustling with nerves. He’s sweating and shaking and the suit he’s wearing feels itchy against his flushed skin. He could just—he could give it up. He’s too young; there will be plenty more opportunities in the future, opportunities where he has the world at his feet. Still, he doesn’t turn away from the swanky entrance of the upscale restaurant Mr. Cowell decided to meet.

The portfolio is small in his hands, just a handful of his best pieces, watercolors and charcoal sketches, some mixed media and photographs of his bigger works. His hands are shaking and he’s craving a cigarette, but for the first time in his life, he’s on time and doesn’t want to risk losing his chance.

Inside, he tugs at his tie, walks up to where the host stands with a giant smile on her face. She eyes him for a moment, and Zayn gives her a smirk despite being distraught. “I’m here for Mr. Cowell,” Zayn says easily, grateful that his voice doesn’t betray the anxiety crawling up his spine.

“Ah, yes. Right this way, Mr. Malik,” she says, letting her eyes linger on him before turning away, weaving through an elaborate set up of tables to a more private setting in the back. Zayn sees Mr. Cowell immediately and his heart jumps in his throat. (He knows his art is good, he knows the extent of his talent, he doesn’t know why he’s so nervous.)

The host waves a hand towards the table and Mr. Cowell looks up from where he’s been studying a newspaper. He’s clean-cut, expensive looking. The watch on his wrist gleams in the overhead light, and the color of his button up is stiff and crisp. Zayn swallows thickly before offering a smile.

“Mr. Malik, nice of you to join me,” Mr. Cowell says, voice rich and confident, strong and commanding. He waves the host away and offers Zayn a seat in front of him.

“Yes, thank you.” Zayn sets his art on the table, sliding into the booth as gracefully as he can (he doesn’t spill anything so that’s a plus.) “And, uh, please, call me Zayn,” he offers as an afterthought.

Mr. Cowell smiles. “Right, of course.” He pushes a menu towards Zayn. “Hungry?”

Zayn shakes his head. Mr. Cowell’s smile grows.

“Straight to business, then?”

Zayn nods, because he wants to know what Mr. Cowell sees in him. What it is that makes Zayn special, sets him apart from the two hundred other university students vying for this once in a lifetime opportunity.

“Well, Zayn,” Mr. Cowell starts, “you have to understand in the business of art, it’s all about potential. It’s taking risks. Of course, risks mean failures, but taking risks can also lead to great achievement. The pieces you submitted for the art show a few months ago—it’s not quite like anything I’ve seen before. Honestly, I’d like to see more. I’d like to see what you can do. I quite liked the sculpture—one of my favorites in a long time.”

Zayn is at a loss for words, watching Mr. Cowell with a careful gaze. “Why?” he asks before he can stop himself.

Mr. Cowell grins, easy and blinding. “Can anyone really explain why a single piece of art interests them? It simply does or does not. Your art, Zayn, it’s made to inspire. And if this is what you can produce at twenty in the middle of receiving your degree, I can only imagine what a few years’ time will do to you, what kind of experiences you’ll find yourself sharing.” He wraps his fingers at the base of his wine glass, takes a calculated sip.

Zayn smiles at that. “Potential.”

“Correct, Mr. Malik.” He sets the glass down and levels Zayn with a look. “You’ve brought something for me to see, yes?”

Nodding, Zayn passes the portfolio across the table and with greedy hands, Mr. Cowell picks it up, thumbs through it, stops every so often to stare intently at whatever piece he’s looking at. It unnerves Zayn, makes him go for his own glass of wine. Mr. Cowell doesn’t ask him questions, doesn’t ask him about the inspiration or stories behind the pieces. He just stares.

Then, he closes the portfolio and sets it in front of Zayn.

“Cans seems to be a favorite medium,” Mr. Cowell says finally.

Zayn nods. “It is.”

“Why?”

“It forces control.”

Mr. Cowell smiles. “I’d like to feature you, Zayn, in the gallery. We receive a lot of traffic and I think you could benefit with that. Season will be up again in the winter.”

Zayn’s stomach squeezes painfully and he’s sure his heart stops. “Seriously, like?”

Mr. Cowell’s smile disappears. “Zayn, look at your work. Honestly look at it. Do you think you deserve something like this?”

Leaning back against the back of the booth, Zayn ponders over Mr. Cowell’s question. He _does_ deserve something like this. He’s been working towards this since he could hold a pencil, since he could create color palates and move onto mixing paint and spraying any canvas he could touch. He’s been studying artists and techniques and _fuck_ , this is all he’s ever wanted. Mr. Cowell seems to know that. Seems to see something in Zayn that Zayn doesn’t see when he looks at his reflection.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

Mr. Cowell pulls out a card. “Winter, Zayn. Get some pieces together. We’ll do a showing.”

“Ace, Mr. Cowell.”

Mr. Cowell chuckles, shakes his head. “It was a pleasure meeting you. Quiet, which makes sense considering you seem to let your art speak for you. I like that.” Mr. Cowell stands and Zayn does the same. “And please, Zayn. Call me Simon.”

They shake hands, and just like that, Zayn is standing on the sidewalk, inhaling smoke from his cigarette with a grin on his face.

* * *

 

Liam isn’t home; with Louis and El’s wedding coming up so fast, Liam and Niall have been roped into final preparations.

The house is quiet, but Zayn is bursting with happy energy. The gallery is going to show his work. _His_. And he can’t believe there was a moment in time where he almost turned that down. His art, to one of the most prestigious art dealers in the country, was worth something.

Fuck, he couldn’t believe it.

He doesn’t know what to do yet, who to tell. He wants to call his mother, call Harry. Fuck, he wants to tell Liam everything that happened in the twenty minutes he was sat in front of someone worth millions of dollars.

But he sits, and he grins and he smokes his cigarettes and he waits until Liam comes home.

* * *

 

He starts from the beginning, from the very first email and the emails after that, from his Professor. And then the meeting and then the offer. Liam stares at him with wide eyes, big and brown and expressive and they twinkle in the dim light as Zayn talks and talks and Liam just watches him, lips turned up into a gentle smile.

“You’ve got _fuck_ loads more than just _potential_ , Zayn,” Liam finally says, but he’s wrapping his arms around Zayn’s tiny frame and Zayn lets himself be held by Liam, let’s Liam kiss him all over until they can’t quite kiss anymore because they’re laughing so much.

“We should celebrate. It’s something to celebrate, right?” Liam says, hands falling over Zayn’s thighs where they’re straddled over his hips. Zayn looks down at Liam with a grin, nodding.

“Yeah, I’ll call Harry and we’ll throw a whole fucking party.” Zayn kisses up Liam’s neck, fingers curling through Liam’s hair. “I was so scared, Li. Babe, fuck, I was freaked out of my mind.” Zayn nuzzles his nose against Liam’s, drapes his body forward against Liam’s chest. He wraps his arms around Liam’s neck. “I’m sorry I kept it from you, too. The only thing I wanted to do when I came home was tell you. I was proper fucking excited, babe.”

Liam chuckles, goes in to kiss the corner of Zayn’s mouth. “It’s okay. I get why you kept it in, yeah? Don’t apologize, it’s okay. You got what you wanted in the end, right?”

Zayn nods. “Right. I just—it’s going to take forever to get used to this.”

“Well,” Liam says, with a gentle kiss to his mouth. “You’ve got plenty of time, right?”

“Yeah, babe. I do.” Zayn smiles, closing his eyes and presses his mouth against Liam’s nipping at Liam’s plush bottom lip. “Take me to bed, yeah? I’ve got so much energy I’m pretty sure I need you to fuck it out of me.”

Liam barks out a laugh but doesn’t protest one bit from the way he lifts Zayn in his arms and carries him away to the bedroom.

* * *

 

(Zayn calls Harry in a sex-induced haze, half sleepy but still giddy. He starts at the beginning again and Harry cries for him. And at that, Zayn cries a little bit, too.

“Fuck, I can’t believe this, Zayn. _Zayn_. Do you know—like the beginning of this year was total shit right? And now you have Liam, and you have your art. That’s—that’s everything.”

Zayn grins, looking down at where Liam lays at his side, fast asleep. He’s got his face tucked into Zayn’s side and Zayn cards his fingers through Liam’s hair.

“Yeah, babe. It’s everything.”)

* * *

 

“Guess. What.”

Harry’s voice is giddy when he bursts into Zayn’s room, grinning madly, a sparkle in his green eyes. Zayn stares at him to continue, because he hates guessing games, honestly.

“What, Harry?”

Harry crosses the room, sits on Zayn’s bed, right next to him to peek at the notebook he’s drafting in. (It’s a sketch of Liam, completely by memory, and Harry doesn’t comment on it.)

“Niall asked me to move in with him.”

Zayn stops his drawing, focuses on Harry’s face, the way it radiates happiness. Zayn smiles. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he sighs dreamily. “I mean, he said he’d meant to ask before the accident, and then everything got all messy with him taking time off of work and his parents being around and—and it was like three in the morning and we were on the couch talking and he just asked me to stay. Move in with him. And I said yeah.” Harry looks like he’s been asked to get married, he’s glowing. But it’s the little things that make Harry the happiest, really. Zayn knows that best about him.

“That’s totally rad, man,” Zayn says, grinning. “It’s not like you’re here most of the time anyway,” he continues, teasing.

Harry scoffs. “Yeah, well neither are you. You spend more nights at Liam’s than you do here. Pot calling the kettle black, much?”

Zayn purses his lips. “Yeah.” He knows. Because it’s true; he spends most of his time at Liam’s house because of Liam’s injuries at first, and then it just—was. Liam, so easily, made space in his life for Zayn. He doesn’t want to think of what it means that Liam hasn’t asked for him to stay like Niall had of Harry.

“So. I guess I wanted to figure out what _you_ were going to do. This place is too big for just one person, and I’d suggest you ask Liam to come, but he’s already got his house, so—“ Harry drops whatever it is he’d been planning to say, giving Zayn a look that reads _sorry_.

“Yeah,” Zayn repeats, pouting his lips.

“You could just ask, right? I mean, he loves you. Would do just about anything for you. I’m sure he’d be ecstatic that you’d want something like this, too.”

Zayn shrugs. “Dunno. I guess. I never—I mean, I’m—I’ve thought about it, of course. But it kind of already feels like I live there, you know? His parents stopped by, wanted to take him out for a while, and I kind of scurried away so he could be alone with him. He didn’t ask me to leave. In fact, he asked me to come with him, but you know how I get—“

Harry rolls his eyes. “Yeah, which is so stupid, because Liam’s parents love you so much. They’ve already adopted you. Karen’s dropping hints on weddings and children. I know you hear her muttering. Everyone does.”

Zayn laughs, because yeah, it does happen. But Zayn is still young, still plenty of time.

(“Let the boy have his twenty first birthday, mom,” Nicola will call out, garnering laughs from everyone in hearing distance. “Then we can talk about baby Zayn getting married.”)

“Just ask him, Z. The worst thing he could say is no. And you know he won’t.”

Zayn sighs. “Yeah, maybe. I’ll talk to him about it.”

Harry claps his hands together, smacks a kiss onto Zayn’s cheeks. “He loves you. There’s no way he doesn’t want you to live with him.”

Zayn smiles, and thinks it’s true. He can feel the heaviness of Liam’s house key on his key ring when he walks around, the way it weighs him down. He’s memorized the way Liam’s house smells like home, more than the flat does.

It’s his home, he knows. It’s only a matter of time.

* * *

 

It’s his third year of university—he shouldn’t feel this weathered, but he does. It’s welcomed, though, a good feeling of routine, of _knowing._

The building is back up and it’s kind of beautiful the way architecture is, built strong and sturdy, unbreakable. It gives Zayn the chills to walk into the newly renovated classroom; it’s right there, the memory of the flames flickering up the walls, licking over the ground, crawling towards him. He can see the haziness of smoke sometimes; Zayn has to fight not to shut down when he’s sat inside, working on various arts for the beginning of the school year. It’s difficult, but he makes it work. He knows he has to be strong. He has to be strong for himself.

There’s a smile that curves his lips; Zayn rubs a hand over the stubble on his chin, admiring the walls of the institute, covered in art created by his classmates and alumni. He spots his own art in between portraits and landscapes, bursts of colors and textures (his sculpture sits in the corner there, and he watches the awe assume the features of wide-eyed freshmen, the way they reach their hands out to touch but think twice). It’s beautiful.

Zayn walks out from the library to get to his lecture, stopped by someone calling his name.

Professor Diaz is sun-kissed and bright, crinkles by her eyes and laugh lines framing her cheeks.  She reminds him of his mother, short and sweet, too caring, too kind. She _sees_ something in him.

“Zayn, it’s good to see you again,” she says. She reaches out to take him into her arms and he goes willingly. Zayn’s had millions of favorite teachers over the time of his academic career, but she’s probably at the top of his list, the kind of teacher that sticks with him for years after he’s out of school.

“Yeah, it’s good to see you, too,” Zayn answers, pulling back from her embrace.

She grins at him. “I see you signed up for one of my classes. I’m honored, honestly.”

Zayn laughs. “Between you and me, you’re kind of the best around. I have to take advantage while I can.”

Professor Diaz shakes her head. Her curly hair shuffles over her shoulders. “You’re sweet, Zayn, honestly. Have you given any thought to the offer?”

Zayn grins, nodding. “Yeah, like. Mr.—er, Simon. He’s given me an offer. To like, you know. Be featured. So.”

Professor Diaz pulls him into a tight hug, knocking the breath out of him with a laugh. “What?! Zayn, I’m so proud of you. This is—I knew you could do it.”

Pulling back, Zayn grins. “You gave me that push, you know? I needed that, like.” He nods. “It’s good. I’m excited.”

“Amazing. Just—I’m so proud of you, Zayn. You’re going to graduate and have a place to go. It’s fantastic. It’s all I could ever want for an artist like you.”

Zayn flushes, shrugs his shoulders. “There’s a lot of things that got me here. You’re one of them, you know? You believed in me. You could have taken a chance on anyone, but you chose me.”

Professor Diaz grins, steps back to cross her arms over her chest. “I know greatness when I see it, Zayn. And you are great. I will see you in class, alright?”

Zayn nods. “Yeah, of course. Thanks, Ana.”

“Really, Zayn. It was my pleasure.”

* * *

They’re in the middle of packing Harry’s things, Zayn’s left untouched. Liam and Niall show up to help; Niall’s still wobbly on his legs, and he’s not allowed to carry anything over a certain weight and Zayn laughs whenever Harry turns a shade of frustrated red when Niall ignores him.

(“Niall, fuck, put that down—“

“Harry, I’ll do what I damn well please—“

“You’re going to hurt yourself— _again_.”

“It’s not even heavy!”)

Harry and Niall are downstairs loading the last of it when Liam corners him in the kitchen. Zayn is busy making coffee, pushing buttons on the coffeemaker, and he turns his head to glance at Liam as he walks in before turning his attention to the coffeemaker.

(He looks good, so good, like always, with his worn, fitted shirts and jeans that hang so enticingly off of his hips, low enough that Zayn’s been catching glimpses of those back dimples every time he stretches to reach for something.)

“So, I heard some interesting news, yeah?” Liam starts. Zayn can hear the smile in his voice, even though his back is turned. Liam crowds up against him, his chest pressed warmly against Zayn’s back. Liam’s arms wind around Zayn’s waist, hands coming to rest against Zayn’s stomach.

“Yeah?” Zayn indulges, rolling his eyes. “What’d you hear?” He turns his head to peek back at Liam. 

Liam chuckles. His eyes are sparkling like they always are, lips stretched into a smile “Well, two of my very dear friends are moving in together, leaving a certain boyfriend of mine to live here all by himself. And— _and_ , that boyfriend never once said anything about moving out of this flat. So, I got to thinking—I do that sometimes,” Liam teases, “that maybe it wasn’t so much that he didn’t _want_ to ask, but maybe he wanted _me_ to ask. Because I know how you can get, Zayn. Always feeling like you’re intruding, even though I’ve told you a million and a half times that I _love_ you, and I _love_ when you’re around.”

Zayn tries to hide his smile, turning in Liam’s hold. He ducks forward to press his face into Liam’s shoulder. He inhales the lingering scent of apples and springtime and the underlying curl of cigarette smoke. “I know, _but_ it’s still _your_ house. I figure if you wanted me to move in, you’d have asked already.” It’s easier to admit when he’s not staring Liam in the face, when he doesn’t have to watch Liam’s face fall like he knows it will.

When Zayn looks up, he sees Liam’s face is thoughtful, pensive. His voice is low when he says, “I sort of thought you were already living with me. I mean, I gave you the key, right? Like ages ago. And your stuff started appearing all over and I do laundry and your clothes are there and … I don’t know. I thought the nights you didn’t stay were because—you’re _you_. You need quiet space. Your own alone time. And I get that. But since that first night, it’s kind of always been your home, too.”

Zayn smile is full blown, he can’t help it. There’s a warmth that floods him; he should be used to it by now with how often it happens around Liam. “I guess I didn’t think of it like that,” he admits.

Liam laughs. “We’re hopeless together,” he teases. “But, fine, I’ll ask. Zayn Malik, will you officially and completely move in with me?”

Zayn curls his arms around Liam’s shoulders, nuzzles his nose against Liam’s, grinning like mad. “I’d love to.”

(There’s a lot more packing to be done when Niall and Harry come upstairs; this time, it’s Zayn’s things, and everyone comments on the way Liam looks absolutely giddy with happiness at the fact.)

* * *

(Sex is all the more satisfying, Zayn finds, when he knows he gets to wake up to Liam every morning after in their bed, in their room, in their _home_.

He doesn’t know when he’s going to get used to seeing their toothbrushes side by side, or his clothes all mixed with Liam’s or Liam allowing him to paint the walls in the house.

He doesn’t know what to do with that kind of freedom, but it’s fucking exhilarating.)

* * *

 

Eleanor and Louis’ wedding is stunning. There are just over two hundred people in attendance, some of which Zayn meets, most of them he doesn’t.

Zayn’s never been one for weddings, hasn’t ever really been to one, but there’s still happiness instilled in everyone. Eleanor looks beautiful in her dress, all white and strapless, showing off her dainty, sun-kissed shoulders. Louis compliments her, dressed in black, classic. They’re a sight when they dance for the first time on the floor, surrounded by hundreds of people who love them.

(Zayn still can’t get over their vows, personally written, like poetry the way they tell each other how much they love each other. It’s better than anything he’s ever read in the books of the library he’s so fond of.)

Then there’s Liam, standing by his side, vibrating with happiness and positivity, glowing like a beacon of light.

There’s a moment when Zayn steps away from the party and onto a balcony, empty of any guests. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lights the end of one, taking a long drag, closing his eyes as a breeze wafts over him.

He knows it’s Liam that comes up beside him purely by scent, the sound of his footsteps. When Zayn opens his eyes, he mirrors the big smile that plays on Liam’s lips, admires the way Liam’s cheeks are colored from the couple of glasses of champagne they’ve had. He stands close, Liam’s hand sitting gentle on his hip.

“I love weddings,” Liam says casually. Zayn grins, knowing.

“I know, Li. You’ve been all over this for weeks. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were happier than the bride and groom themselves.”

“That could be possible. But probably not, if the way Lou’s been staring at El all night is something to go off of.”

Zayn smiles, nodding, because he knows nothing compares to the way he looks at her, like she’s the only other person on the planet. “She looks amazing tonight. And I can swear Niall and Harry are next. Weddings are Harry’s _thing_. The one thing he’s wanted for years. Since we were kids, really. All he would talk about. Finding someone that loves him, someone he loves just as much. And just tying the knot. Settling down, having a couple of kids.” Zayn sighs. “I think—I think Niall’s good for him. I think they’d be good together.”

Liam gives him a soft smile, nodding. “What about you?” he asks, winding his arms around Zayn’s waist, pulling him flush against his sturdy body.

Zayn’s grin explodes. “What about me?”

“Do _you_ like weddings?” Liam questions, almost exasperated.

“You better not be asking me to marry you, Liam. You heard what your sister said. Not before I’m twenty one.” Zayn’s only half joking. (He’s pretty sure he’d have a heart attack if Liam starts popping serious questions like that. It’s not the commitment he’s afraid of. He’s pretty sure it’s because he’s still wondering how he deserves someone like Liam.)

Liam grins bright, leaning closer, lowering his voice until it’s barely above a whisper. “But after is fair game?”

Zayn laughs, takes another drag of his cigarette, careful to blow the smoke away from Liam’s face. He blinks slowly, tastes his words on his tongue before he says it, shocked at how true they are. “After is fair game, sure.”

Liam looks at him, pensive and thoughtful, almost serious. “But you’d want to, right?”

Zayn shrugs. “Yeah, I think I would. I mean, maybe a little after I graduate from university, after the gallery showing. After, yeah. I think I’d like it a lot.”

Liam smiles and steals a kiss from Zayn’s lips when Zayn flicks the rest of his cigarette away. “I can wait. As long as you want me to,” Liam murmurs.

Zayn leans forward to press a long kiss to Liam’s mouth, tasting the fizz of the champagne on his tongue. “It won’t be long at all. We’ll be a couple of old men before you know it. Retired and sitting on the porch of house with a picket fence. A couple of dogs running around. And I’d still look at you like you hung the moon in the sky.”

Liam’s laugh is soft, caresses the flesh of his neck where’s he’s burrowed his head. “It’s a good look for you,” he whispers.

And Zayn thinks, _yeah, babe, it is._

* * *

(There’s still the fight, where anxiety makes a home in his ribcage and uses his lungs as punching bags; he still has to count sometimes, when he’s drowning in nightmares that creep up on him when he settles into being too happy. Zayn still uses his art to settle his frustrations, to pass the time when the house is empty of Liam’s presence, chain smoking when the space around him looms, too much of it all at once and he’s thrown back, dripping in fear. There’s still the tickle of distress that slides down his spine when he doesn’t hear from Liam, when Liam comes home and he’s _hurt_.

But Liam comes back, comes home to him, _always_.

Still breathing, heart beating.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! [Tumblr.](http://softestliam.tumblr.com/)


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